'  L^i&' 


- 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


Gift  of 

THOMAS INA  IVY  COSTA 
in  honor  of 
HARR  WAGNER 


Be  Uttxe  <£bitton 


Joaquin  Miller's 
Poems 

[in  six  volumes  ] 


Jf  out 

Songs  of  Italy  and  Others 


San  Francisco 

&  ^Rap  Company 
1909 


OF  THIS  AUTHOR'S  DE  LUXE  EDITION 
250  COPIES  ONLY  HAVE  BEEN 
PRINTED  ON  CHELTENHAM  DECKLE 
EDGE  PAPER.  AND  NUMBERED 
AND  SIGNED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


THIS  COPY  IS  NUMBER. 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

C.  H.  MILLER 

1909 


TO 
MY   PARENTS 

HIDINGS 
AND    MARGARET   WITT    MILLER 


INDEX. 

PAGE 

SONGS  OF  ITALY  AND  OTHERS. 

The  Ideal   and  the   Real 1 

The  Dove  of  St.   Mark 18 

Como    29 

Sunrise  in  Venice 32 

Vale !     America 34 

Rome    43 

"Poveris !  Poveris  I"   44 

Attila's    Throne,    Torcello 45 

Venice    49 

A   Hailstorm   in  Venice 51 

Santa   Maria:   Torcello 52 

In  a  Gondola 55 

The  Capucin  of  Rome 57 

SONGS  OF  THE  HEBREW  CHILDREN. 

At  Bethlehem   63 

"La  Notte"  64 

In   Palestine    65 

Beyond  Jordan   67 

Faith    68 

Hope    69 

Charity    70 

A  Song  for  Peace 72 

To   Russia    75 

To  Rachel  in  Russia  76 

THE  ULTIMATE  WEST. 

The  Gold  that  Grew  by  Shasta  Town 81 

The   Sioux   Chiefs   Daughter 85 

A  Shasta  Tale  of  Love 90 

Love  in  the  Sierras 93 

Old  Gib  at  Castle  Rocks 95 

The  Larger  College 100 

[xi] 


INDEX 

PAGE 

To  the  Pioneers 103 

"49"  105 

San  Diego  106 

Pioneers  to  the  Great  Emerald  Land 107 

Alaska 109 

Twilight  at  the  Rights 109 

Arbor  Day  110 

By  the  Balboa  Seas Ill 

Magnolia  Blossoms Ill 

California's  Christmas   112 

The  Men  of  Forty-Nine 114 

The  Heroes  of  America 117 

Yosemite   118 

Dead  in  the  Sierras 120 

"The  Fourth"  in  Oregon 121 

An  Answer 126 

LOG  CABIN  LINES 

The  Soldiers'  Home,  Washington 131 

Olive     135 

The  Battle  Flag  at  Shenandoah 136 

The  Lost  Regiment 138 

MISCELLANEOUS  LINES. 

The  World  is  a  Better  World 143 

To  Save  a  Soul 143 

Down  the  Mississippi  at  Night 144 

A  Nubian  Face  on  the  Nile 144 

Montara  144 

A  Christmas  Eve  in  Cuba 145 

Comanche    148 

Our  Heroes  of  Today 150 

By  the  Lower  Mississippi 152 

Her  Picture  153 

Dead  in  the  Long,  Strong  Grass 154 

Garfield    156 

He  Loves  and  Rides  Away 159 


INDEX 

PAGE 

After  the  Battle 163 

Those   Perilous   Spanish   Eyes 164 

Newport  News   165 

The  Coming  of  Spring : 166 

Christmas  by  the  Great  River 167 

Thomas   of   Tigre 169 

The  Queen  of  My  Dreams 171 

The   Poet   173 

Lincoln  Park  173 

The  River  of  Rest 174 

The  New  President 175 

Montgomery  at  Quebec 176 

Africa  177 

Summer  Moons  at  Mount  Vernon 180 

The  Poem  by  the  Potomac 181 

A   Dead   Carpenter 183 

Question?    184 

Boston  to  the  Boers 186 

St.  Paul's   189 

Westminster  Abbey  190 

At  Lord  Byron's  Tomb 191 

England  193 

Riel,  The  Rebel 194 

The  Defense  of  the  Alamo 195 

Tomorrow  197 

Finale   198 

To  Juanita   199 

SEMI-HUMOROUS  SONGS. 

In  Classic  Shades 203 

That  Gentle  Man  from  Boston 206 

William  Brown  of  Oregon 210 

Horace  Greeley's  Drive 214 

That  Faithful  Wife  of  Idaho 217 

Saratoga  and  the  Psalmist 220 

A  Turkey  Hunt  in  Texas 222 


INDEX 

PAGE 

Usland   226 

That  Ussian  of  Usland 227 

Says  Plato   229 

Welcome  to  the  Great  American  Ocean 231 

Two  Wise  Old  Men  of  Omar's  Land. .  .  .234 


[xiv] 


SONGS  OF  ITALY  AND  OTHERS 


THE   IDEAL   AND    THE   REAL 

And  full  these  truths  eternal 
O'er  the  yearning  spirit  steal, 
That  the  real  is  the  ideal, 
And  the  ideal  is  the  real. 

She  was  damn'd  with  the  dower  of  beauty,  she 
Had  gold  in  shower  by  shoulder  and  brow. 
Her  feet! — why,  her  two  blessed  feet,  were  so 

small, 
They  could  nest  in  this  hand.     How  queenly,  how 

tall, 

How  gracious,  how  grand !    She  was  all  to  me, — 
My  present,  my  past,  my  eternity ! 

She  but  lives  in  my  dreams.    I  behold  her  now 
By  shoreless  white  waters  that  flow'd  like  a  sea 
At  her  feet  where  I  sat;  her  lips  pushed  out 
In  brave,  warm  welcome  of  dimple  and  pout! 
'Twas  aeons  agone.    By  that  river  that  ran 
All  fathomless,  echoless,  limitless,  on, 

And  shoreless,  and  peopled  with  never  a  man, 
We  met,  soul  to  soul.     .     .     .     No  land;  yet  I 

think 

There  were  willows  and  lilies  that  lean'd  to  drink. 
The  stars  they  were  seal'd  and  the  moons  were 

gone. 

The  wide  shining  circles  that  girdled  that  world, 
They  were  distant  and  dim.     And  an  incense 

curl'd 

In  vapory  folds  from  that  river  that  ran 
All  shoreless,  with  never  the  presence  of  man. 


SONGS   OF   ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


How  sensuous  the  night;  how  soft  was  the 

sound 
Of  her  voice  on  the  night !    How  warm  was  her 

breath 

In  that  world  that  had  never  yet  tasted  of  death 
Or  forbidden  sweet  fruit!     .     .     .     In  that  far 

profound. 

We  were  camped  on  the  edges  of  godland.    We 
Were  the  people  of  Saturn.    The  watery  fields, 
The  wide-wing'd,  dolorous  birds  of  the  sea, 
They  acknowledged  but  us.     Our  brave  battle 

shields 
Were  my  naked  white  palms;  our  food  it  was 

love. 
Our  roof  was  the  fresco  of  gold  belts  above. 

How  turn'd  she  to  me  where  that  wide  river 

ran, 

With  its  lilies  and  willows  and  watery  weeds, 
And  heeded  as  only  a  true  love  heeds !     .     .     . 
How  tender  she  was,  and  how  timid  she  was ! 
But  a  black,  hoofed  beast,  with  the  head  of  a 

man, 

Stole  down  where  she  sat  at  my  side,  and  began 
To  puff  his  tan  cheeks,  then  to  play,  then  to 

pause, 
With  his  double-reed  pipe;  then  to  play  and  to 

play 

As  never  played  man  since  the  world  began, 
And  never  shall  play  till  the  judgment  day. 

How  he  puff'd!  how  he  play'd!    Then  down 

the  dim  shore, 
This  half-devil  man,  all  hairy  and  black, 

[2] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Did  dance  with  his  hoofs  in  the  sand,  laughing 

back 
As   his   song   died   away.     .     .     .     She   turned 

never  more 

Unto  me  after  that.    She  arose  and  she  pass'd 
Right  on  from  my  sight.     Then  I  followed  as 

fast 

As  true  love  can  follow.    But  ever  before 
Like  a  spirit  she  fled.    How  vain  and  how  far 
Did  I  follow  my  beauty,  red  belt  or  white  star ! 
Through    foamy    white    sea,    unto    fruit-laden 

shore. 

How  long  did  I  follow !    My  pent  soul  of  fire 
It  did  feed  on  itself.     I  fasted,  I  cried ; 
Was  tempted  by  many.    Yet  still  I  denied 
The  touch  of  all  things,  and  kept  my  desire    .    .    . 
I  stood  by  the  lion  of  St.  Mark  in  that  hour 
Of  Venice  when  gold  of  the  sunset  is  roll'd 
From  cloud  to  cathedral,  from  turret  to  tower, 
In  matchless,  magnificent  garments  of  gold; 
Then  I  knew  she  was  near ;  yet  I  had  not  known 
Her  form  or  her  face  since  the  stars  were  sown. 

We  two  had  been  parted — God  pity  us ! — when 
This  world  was  unnamed  and  all  heaven  was 

dim; 

We  two  had  been  parted  far  back  on  the  rim 
And  the  outermost  border  of  heaven's  red  bars; 
We  two  had  been  parted  ere  the  meeting  of  men, 
Or  God  had  set  compass  on  spaces  as  yet ; 
We  two  had  been  parted  ere  God  had  once  set 
His  finger  to  spinning  the  purple  with  stars, — 
And  now  at  the  last  in  the  sea  and  fret 
Of  the  sun  of  Venice,  we  two  had  met. 

[  3  ] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Where  the  lion  of  Venice,  with  brows  a-frown, 
With  tossed  mane  tumbled,  and  teeth  in  air, 
Looks  out  in  his  watch  o'er  the  watery  town, 
With  paw  half  lifted,  with  claw  half  bare, 
By  the  blue  Adriatic,  at  her  bath  in  the  sea, — 
I  saw  her.    I  knew  her,  but  she  knew  not  me. 
I  had  found  her  at  last!     Why  I,  I  had  sail'd 
The   antipodes   through,   had   sought,   and   had 

hail'd 
All  flags ;  I  had  climbed  where  the  storm  clouds 

curl'd, 
And  call'd  o'er  the  awful  arch'd  dome  of  the 

world. 

I  saw  her  one  moment,  then  fell  back  abash'd, 
And  fill'd  to  the  throat.     .     .     .     Then  I  turn'd 

me  once  more, 
Thanking  God  in  my  soul,  while  the  level  sun 

flashed 
Happy  halos  about  her.     .     .     .     Her  breast! — 

why,  her  breast 

Was  white  as  twin  pillows  that  lure  you  to  rest. 
Her  sloping  limbs  moved  like  to  melodies  told, 
As  she  rose  from  the  sea,  and  threw  back  the 

gold 
Of    her    glorious    hair,    and    set    face    to    the 

shore.     .     .     . 
I  knew  her!     I  knew  her,  though  we  had  not 

met 
Since  the  red  stars  sang  to  the  sun's  first  set ! 

How  long  I  had  sought  her !    I  had  hunger'd, 

nor  ate 

Of  any  sweet  fruits.    I  had  followed  not  one 
Of  all  the  fair  glories  grown  under  the  sun. 

[4] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


I  had  sought  only  her,  believing  that  she 

Had  come  upon  earth,  and  stood  waiting  for  me 

Somewhere  by  my  way.     But  the  pathways  of 

Fate 

They  had  led  otherwhere ;  the  round  world  round, 
The  far  North  seas  and  the  near  profound 
Had  fail'd  me  for  aye.     Now  I  stood  by  that  sea 
Where  she  bathed  in  her  beauty,     .     .     .     God, 

I  and  she! 

I  spake  not,  but  caught  in  my  breath;  I  did 

raise 

My  face  to  fair  heaven  to  give  God  praise 
That  at  last,  ere  the  ending  of  Time,  we  had  met, 
Had    touched    upon    earth    at   the    same    sweet 

place.     .     .     . 

Yea,  we  never  had  met  since  creation  at  all; 
Never,  since  ages  ere  Adam's  fall, 
Had  we  two  met  in  that  hunger  and  fret 
Where  two  should  be  one;  but  had  wander'd 

through  space ; 
Through  space  and  through  spheres,  as  some  bird 

that  hard  fate 
Gives  a  thousand  glad  Springs  but  never  one 

mate. 

Was  it  well  with  my  love?     Was  she  true? 

Was  she  brave 
With  virtue's  own  valor?    Was  she  waiting  for 

me? 
Oh,  how  fared  my  love?     Had  she  home?  had 

she  bread? 
Had  she  known  but  the  touch  of  the  warm- 

temper'd  wave? 

[  5  ] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Was  she  born  to  this  world  with  a  crown  on  her 
head, 

Or  born,  like  myself,  but  a  dreamer  in- 
stead? .  .  . 

So  long  it  had  been !     So  long !     Why,  the  sea — 

That  wrinkled  and  surly,  old,  time-temper'd 
slave — 

Had  been  born,  had  his  revels,  grown  wrinkled 
and  hoar 

Since  I  last  saw  my  love  on  that  uttermost  shore. 

Oh,  how  fared  my  love?     Once  I  lifted  my 

face, 
And  I  shook  back  my  hair  and  look'd  out  on  the 

sea; 

I  press'd  my  hot  palms  as  I  stood  in  my  place, 
And  I  cried,  "Oh,  I  come  like  a  king  to  your 

side 
Though  all  hell  intervene!"     .     .     .     "Hist  i  she 

may  be  a  bride, 

A  mother  at  peace,  with  sweet  babes  at  her  knee ! 
A  babe  at  her  breast  and  a  spouse  at  her  side ! — 
Had  I  wander'd  too  long,  and  had  Destiny 
Sat  mortal  between  us  ?"    I  buried  my  face 
In  my  hands,  and  I  moan'd  as  I  stood  in  my  place. 

'Twas  her  year  to  be  young.    She  was  tall,  she 

was  fair — 

Was  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over  there  ? 
'Twas  her  year  to  be  young.     She  was  queenly 

and  tall; 

And  I  felt  she  was  true,  as  I  lifted  my  face 
And  saw  her  press  down  her  rich  robe  to  its 

place, 

[  6  ] 


SONGS   OF   ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


With  a  band  white  and  small  as  a  babe's  with  a 

doll. 
And  her  feet ! — why,  her  feet  in  the  white  shining 

sand 
Were  so  small,  'twas  a  wonder  the  maiden  could 

stand. 
Then  she  push'd  back  her  hair  with  a  round  hand 

that  shone 
And  flash'd  in  the  light  with  a  white  starry  stone. 

Then  my  love  she  is  rich!     My  love  she  is 

fair! 

Is  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over  there? 
She  is  gorgeous  with  wealth!     "Thank  God,  she 

has  bread," 

I  said  to  myself.    Then  I  humbled  my  head 
In  gratitude  deep.    Then  I  question'd  me  where 
Was  her  palace,  her  parents?    What  name  did 

she  bear? 

What  mortal  on  earth  came  nearest  her  heart? 
Who  touch'd  the  small  hand  till  it  thrilled  to  a 

smart? 
'Twas  her  year  to  be  young.    She  was  rich,  she 

was  fair — 
Was  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over 

there? 

Then  she  loosed  her  rich  robe  that  was  blue 

like  the  sea, 

And  silken  and  soft  as  a  baby's  new  born. 
And  my  heart  it  leap'd  light  as  the  sunlight  at 

morn 

At  the  sight  of  my  love  in  her  proud  purity, 
As  she  rose  like  a  Naiad  half-robed  from  the  sea. 
Then  careless  and  calm  as  an  empress  can  be 

[  7  ] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


She  loosed  and  let  fall  all  the  raiment  of  blue, 
As  she  drew  a  white  robe  in  a  melody 
Of  moving  white  limbs,  while  between  the  two, 
Like  a  rift  in  a  cloud,  shone  her  fair  presence 
through. 

Soon  she  turn'd,  reach'd  a  hand;  then  a  tall 

gondolier 

Who  had  lean'd  on  his  oar,  like  a  long  lifted  spear 
Shot  sudden  and  swift  and  all  silently, 
And  drew  to  her  side  as  she  turn'd  from  the  tide. 
It  was  odd,  such  a  thing,  and  I  counted  it  queer 
That  a  princess  like  this,  whether  virgin  or  bride, 
Should  abide  thus  apart  as  she  bathed  in  the  sea ; 
And  I  chafed  and  I  chafed,  and  so  unsatisfied, 
That  I  fluttered  the  doves  that  were  perch'd  close 

about, 
As  I  strode  up  and  down  in  dismay  and  in  doubt. 

Swift  she  stept  in  the  boat  on  the  borders  of 

night 

As  an  angel  might  step  on  that  far  wonder  land 
Of  eternal  sweet  life,  which  men  mis-name  Death. 
Quick  I  called  me  a  craft,  and  I  caught  at  iny 

breath 

As  she  sat  in  the  boat,  and  her  white  baby  hand 
Held  vestments  of  gold  to  her  throat,  snowy 

white. 
Then    her    gondola    shot, — shot    sharp    for    the 

shore : 

There  was  never  the  sound  of  a  song  or  of  oar, 
But  the  doves  hurried  home  in  white  clouds  to 

Saint  Mark, 
Where  the  brass  horses  plunge  their  high  manes 

in  the  dark. 

[8] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Then  I  cried:     "Follow  fast!     Follow  fast! 

Follow  fast! 

Aye !  thrice  double  fare,  if  you  follow  her  true 
To  her  own  palace  door!"    There  was  plashing 

of  oar 
And  rattle  of  rowlock.     ...     I   sat  peering 

through, 
Looking   far   in  the   dark,   peering  out   as   we 

passed 
With  my  soul  all  alert,  bending  down,  leaning 

low. 

But  only  the  oaths  of  the  fisherman's  crew 
When  we  jostled  them  sharp  as  we  sudden  shot 

through 

The  watery  town.     Then  a  deep,  distant  roar — 
The  rattle  of  rowlock;  the  rush  of  the  oar. 

The  rattle  of  rowlock,  the  rush  of  the  sea    .    .    . 
Swift  wind  like  a  sword  at  the  throat  of  us  all! 
I  lifted  my  face,  and  far,  fitfully 
The  heavens  breathed  lightning;  did  lift  and  let 

fall 
As  if  angels  were  parting  God's  curtains.    Then 

deep 

And  indolent-like,  and  as  if  half  asleep, 
As  if  half  made  angry  to  move  at  all, 
The  thunder  moved.     It  confronted  me. 
It  stood  like  an  avalanche  poised  on  a  hill, 
I  saw  its  black  brows.     I  heard  it  stand  still. 

The  troubled  sea  throbb'd  as  if  rack'd  with 

pain. 

Then  the  black  clouds  arose  and  suddenly  rode, 
As  a  fiery,  fierce  stallion  that  knows  no  rein 
Right  into  the  town.     Then  the  thunder  strode 

[  9  ] 


SONGS   OF   ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


As  a  giant  striding  from  star  to  red  star, 
Then  turn'd  upon  earth  and  frantically  came, 
Shaking  the  hollow  heaven.     And  far 
And  near  red  lightning  in  ribbon  and  skein 
Did  seam  and  furrow  the  cloud  with  flame, 
And  write  on  black  heaven  Jehovah's  name. 

Then   lightnings   came  weaving   like   shuttle- 
cocks, 

Weaving  red  robes  of  black  clouds  for  death. 
And  frightened  doves  fluttered  them  home  in 

flocks, 

And  mantled  men  hied  them  with  gather'd  breath. 
Black  gondolas  scattered  as  never  before, 
And  drew  like  crocodiles  up  on  the  shore; 
And  vessels  at  sea  stood  further  at  sea, 
And  seamen  haul'd  with  a  bended  knee, 
And  canvas  came  down  to  left  and  to  right, 
Till  ships  stood  stripped  as  if  stripp'd  for  fight! 

Then  an  oath.    Then  a  prayer.    Then  a  gust, 

with  rents 

Through   the   yellow-sail'd   fishers.     Then   sud- 
denly 

Came  sharp  fork'd  fire !    Then  again  thunder  fell 
Like  the  great  first  gun.     Ah,  then  there  was 

rout 

Of  ships  like  the  breaking  of  regiments, 
And  shouts  as  if  hurled  from  an  upper  hell. 

Then  tempest!     It  lifted,  it  spun  us  about, 

Then  shot  us  ahead  through  the  hills  of  the  sea 

As  a  great  steel  arrow  shot  shoreward  in  wars — 

Then  the  storm  split  open  till  I  saw  the  blown 

stars. 

[10] 


SONGS   OF   ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


On !  on !  through  the  foam !  through  the  storm ! 

through  the  town ! 

She  was  gone!     She  was  lost  in  that  wilderness 
Of  leprous   white   palaces.     .     .     .     Black   dis- 
tress ! 

I  stood  in  my  gondola.     All  up  and  all  down 
We  pushed  through  the  surge  of  the  salt-flood 

street 

Above  and  below.     .     .     .     'Twas  only  the  beat 
Of  the  sea's  sad  heart.     .     .     .1  leaned,  list- 
ened; I  sat    .     .     . 

'Twas  only  the  water-rat;  nothing  but  that; 
Not  even  the  sea-bird  screaming  distress, 
As  she  lost  her  way  in  that  wilderness. 

I  listened  all  night.     I  caught  at  each  sound; 
I  clutch'd  and  I  caught  as  a  man  that  drown'd — 
Only  the  sullen,  low  growl  of  the  sea 
Far  out  the  flood-street  at  the  edge  of  the  ships ; 
Only  the  billow  slow  licking  his  lips, 
A  dog  that  lay  crouching  there  watching  for 

me, — 

Growling  and  showing  white  teeth  all  the  night ; 
Only  a  dog,  and  as  ready  to  bite; 
Only  the  waves  with  their  salt-flood  tears 
Fretting  white  stones  of  a  thousand  years. 

And  then  a  white  dome  in  the  loftiness 
Of  cornice  and  cross  and  of  glittering  spire 
That  thrust  to  heaven  and  held  the  fire 
Of  the  thunder  still ;  the  bird's  distress 
As  he  struck  his  wings  in  that  wilderness, 
On  marbles  that  speak,  and  thrill,  and  inspire, — 
The  night  below  and  the  night  above; 
The  water-rat  building,  the  sea-lost  dove; 
[n] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


That  one  lost,  dolorous,  lone  bird's  call, 
The  water-rat  building,  —  but  that  was  all. 

Silently,  slowly,  still  up  and  still  down, 
We  row'd  and  we  row'd  for  many  an  hour, 
By  beetling  palace  and  toppling  tower, 
In  the  darks  and  the  deeps  of  the  watery  town. 
Only  the  water-rat  building  by  stealth, 
Only  the  lone  bird  astray  in  his  flight 
That  struck  white  wings  in  the  clouds  of  night, 
On    spires    that    sprang    from    Queen    Adria's 

wealth  ; 

Only  one  sea  dove,  one  lost  white  dove  : 
The  blackness  below,  the  blackness  above! 

Then,  pushing  the  darkness  from  pillar  to  post, 
The  morning  came  sullen  and  gray  like  a  ghost 
Slow  up  the  canal.     I  lean'd  from  the  prow, 
And  listen'd.     Not  even  that  dove  in  distress 
Crying  its  way  through  the  wilderness  ; 
Not  even  the  stealthy  old  water-rat  now, 
Only  the  bell  in  the  fisherman's  tower, 
Slow  tolling  at  sea  and  telling  the  hour, 
To  kneel  to  their  sweet  Santa  Barbara 
For  tawny  fishers  at  sea,  and  to  pray. 


High   over  my  head,   carved  cornice,   quaint 

spire. 
And   ancient  built   palaces    knock'd   their   gray 

brows 
Together    and    frown'  d.      Then    slow-creeping 

scows 

Scraped  the  walls  on  each  side.    Above  me  the 
fire 

[12] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Of  a  sudden-born  morning  came  flaming  in  bars ; 
While  up  through  the  chasm  I  could  count  the 

stars. 

Oh,  pity !     Such  ruin !     The  dank  smell  of  death 
Crept  up   the   canal:    I   could   scarce   take   my 

breath ! 
Twas  the  fit  place  for  pirates,  for  women  who 

keep 
Contagion     of     body     and     soul     where     they 

sleep.     .     .     . 

God's  pity!  A  white  hand  now  beckoned  me 
From  an  old  mouldy  door,  almost  in  my  reach. 
I  sprang  to  the  sill  as  one  wrecked  to  a  beach; 
I  sprang  with  wide  arms:  it  was  she!  it  was 

she!     .     .     . 
And  in  such  a  damn'd  place!     And  what  was 

her  trade? 

To  think  I  had  follow'd  so  faithful,  so  far 
From  eternity's  brink,  from  star  to  white  star, 
To  find  her,  to  find  her,  nor  wife  nor  sweet  maid ! 
To  find  her  a  shameless  poor  creature  of  shame, 
A  nameless,  lost  body,  men  hardly  dared  name. 

All  alone  in  her  shame,  on  that  damp  dismal 

floor 

She  stood  to  entice  me.     ...     I  bow'd  me  be- 
fore 

All-conquering  beauty.     I  call'd  her  my  Queen! 
I  told  her  my  love  as  I  proudly  had  told 
My  love  had  I  found  her  as  pure  as  pure  gold. 
I  reach'd  her  my  hands,  as  fearless,  as  clean, 
As  man  fronting  cannon.    I  cried,  "Hasten  forth 
To  the  sun !    There  are  lands  to  the  south,  to  the 
north, 

[13] 


SONGS  OF  ITALY  AND  OTHERS 


Anywhere  where  you  will.    Dash  the  shame  from 

your  brow; 
Come  with  me,   for  ever;  and  come  with  me 

now!" 

Why,  I'd  have  turn'd  pirate  for  her,  would 

have  seen 
Ships  burn'd  from  the  seas,  like  to  stubble  from 

field. 
Would  I  turn  from  her  now?    Why  should  I 

now  yield, 
When  she  needed  me  most?    Had  I  found  her  a 

queen, 
And  beloved  by  the  world, — why,  what  had  I 

done? 
I  had  woo'd,  and  had  woo'd,  and  had  woo'd  till 

I  won! 

Then,  if  I  had  loved  her  with  gold  and  fair  fame, 
Would  not  I  now  love  her,  and  love  her  the 

same? 

My  soul  hath  a  pride.     I  would  tear  out  my  heart 
And  cast  it  to  dogs,  could  it  play  a  dog's  part ! 

"Don't  you  know  me,  my  bride  of  the  wide 

world  of  yore? 

Why,  don't  you  remember  the  white  milky-way 
Of    stars,    that    we    traversed    the    aeons    be- 
fore?    .     .     . 
We  were  counting  the  colors,  we  were  naming 

the  seas 

Of  the  vaster  ones.  You  remember  the  trees 
That  swayed  in  the  cloudy  white  heavens,  and 
bore 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Bright  crystals  of  sweets,  and  the  sweet  manna- 
dew? 

Why,  you  smile  as  you  weep,  you  remember, 
and  you, 

You  know  me !  You  know  me !  You  know  me ! 
Yea, 

You  know  me  as  if  'twere  but  yesterday ! 

I  told  her  all  things.     Her  brow  took  a  frown ; 
Her  grand  Titan  beauty,  so  tall,  so  serene, 
The  one  perfect  woman,  mine  own  idol  queen — 
Her  proud  swelling  bosom,  it  broke  up  and  down 
As  she  spake,  and  she  shook  in  her  soul  as  she 

said, 
With  her  small  hands  held  to  her  bent,  aching 

head: 

"Go  back  to  the  world!     Go  back,  and  alone 
Till  kind  Death  comes  and  makes  white  as  his 

own." 

I  said :    "I  will  wait !    I  will  wait  in  the  pass 
Of  death,  until  Time  he  shall  break  his  glass." 

Then  I  cried,  "Yea,  here  where  the  gods  did 

love, 

Where  the  white  Europa  was  won, — she  rode 
Her  milk-white  bull  through  these  same  warm 

seas, — 

Yea,  here  in  the  land  where  huge  Hercules, 
With  the  lion's  heart  and  the  heart  of  the  dove, 
Did  walk  in  his  naked  great  strength,  and  strode 
In  the  sensuous  air  with  his  lion's  skin 
Flapping  and  fretting  his  knotted  thews; 
Where  Theseus  did  wander,  and  Jason  cruise, — 
Yea,  here  let  the  life  of  all  lives  begin. 

[15] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND    OTHERS 


"Yea!     Here  where  the  Orient  balms  breathe 

life, 

Where  heaven  is  kindest,  where  all  God's  blue 
Seems  a  great  gate  open'd  to  welcome  you, 
Come,  rise  and  go  forth,  my  empress,  my  wife." 
Then  spake  her  great  soul,  so  grander  far 
Than  I  had  believed  on  that  outermost  star; 
And  she  put  by  her  tears,  and  calmly  she  said, 
With  hands  still  held  to  her  bended  head: 
"I  will  go  through  the  doors  of  death  and  wait 
For  you  on  the  innermost  side  death's  gate. 

"Thank  God  that  this  life  is  but  a  day's  span, 
But  a  wayside  inn  for  weary,  worn  man — 
A  night  and  a  day;  and,  tomorrow,  the  spell 
Of  darkness  is  broken.     Now,  darling,  farewell !" 
I  caught  at  her  robe  as  one  ready  to  die — 
"Nay,  touch  not  the  hem  of  my  robe — it  is  red 
With  sins  that  your  cruel  sex  heap'd  on  my  head ! 
Now  turn  you,  yes,  turn !     But  remember  how  I 
Wait  weeping,  in  sackcloth,  the  while  I  wait 
Inside  death's  door,  and  watch  at  the  gate." 

I  cried  yet  again,  how  I  cried,  how  I  cried, 
Reaching  face,   reaching  hands  as  a  drowning 

man  might. 

She  drew  herself  back,  put  my  two  hands  aside, 
Half  turned  as  she  spoke,  as  one  turned  to  the 

night : 
Speaking  low,  speaking  soft  as  a  wind  through 

the  wall 
Of  a  ruin  where  mold  and  night  masters  all; 

"I  shall  live  my  day,  live  patient  on  through 
The  life  that  man  hath  compelled  me  to, 
[16] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Then  turn  to  my  mother,  sweet  earth,  and  pray 

She  keep  me  pure  to  the  Judgment  Day! 

I  shall  sit  and  wait  as  you  used  to  do, 

Will  wait  the  next  life,  through  the  whole  life 

through. 

I  shall  sit  all  alone,  I  shall  wait  alway; 
I  shall  wait  inside  of  the  gate  for  you, 
Waiting,  and  counting  the  days  as  I  wait; 
Yea,  wait  as  that  beggar  that  sat  by  the  gate 
Of  Jerusalem,  waiting  the  Judgment  Day." 


[17] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


A  DOVE   OF   ST.   MARK 

O  terrible  lion  of  tame  Saint  Mark! 
Tamed  old  lion  with  the  tumbled  mane 
Tossed  to  the  clouds  and  lost  in  the  dark, 
With  teeth  in  the  air  and  tail-whip  p'd  back, 
Foot  on  the  Bible  as  if  thy  track 
Led  thee  the  lord  of  the  desert  again 
Say,  what  of  thy  watch  o'er  the  watery  town? 
Say,  what  of  the  worlds  walking  up  and  down? 

O  silent  old  monarch  that  tops  Saint  Mark, 
That  sat  thy  throne  for  a  thousand  years, 
That  lorded  the  deep  that  defied  all  men, — 
Lo!  I  see  visions  at  sea  in  the  dark; 
And  I  see  something  that  shines  like  tears, 
And  I  hear  something  that  sounds  like  sighs, 
And  I  hear  something  that  seems  as  when 
A  great  soul  suffers  and  sinks  and  dies. 

The  high-born,  beautiful  snow  came  down, 
Silent  and  soft  as  the  terrible  feet 
Of  time  on  the  mosses  of  ruins.     Sweet 
Was  the  Christmas  time  in  the  watery  town. 
'Twas  full  flood  carnival  swell'd  the  sea 
Of  Venice  that  night,  and  canal  and  quay 
Were  alive  with  humanity.     Man  and  maid, 
Glad  in  mad  revel  and  masquerade, 
Moved  through  the  feathery  snow  in  the  night, 
And  shook  black  locks  as  they  laugh'd  outright. 

From  Santa  Maggiore,  and  to  and  fro, 
And  ugly  and  black  as  if  devils  cast  out, 
Black  streaks  through  the  night  of  such  soft, 
white  snow, 

[18] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


The  steel-prow'd  gondolas  paddled  about ; 
There  was  only  the  sound  of  the  long  oars  dip, 
As  the  low  moon  sail'd  up  the  sea  like  a  ship 
In  a  misty  morn.     High  the  low  moon  rose, 
Rose  veil'd  and  vast,  through  the  feathery  snows, 
As  a  minstrel  stept  silent  and  sad  from  his  boat, 
His  worn  cloak  clutched  in  his  hand  to  his  throat. 

Low  under  the  lion  that  guards  St.  Mark, 
Down  under  wide  wings  on  the  edge  of  the  sea 
In  the  dim  of  the  lamps,  on  the  rim  of  the  dark, 
Alone  and  sad  in  the  salt-flood  town, 
Silent  and  sad  and  all  sullenly, 
He  sat  by  the  column  where  the  crocodile 
Keeps    watch    o'er    the    wave,    far    mile    upon 

mile.     .     .     . 

Like  a  signal  light  through  the  night  let  down, 
Then  a  far  star  fell  through  the  dim  profound — 
A  jewel  that  slipped  God's  hand  to  the  ground. 

The  storm  had  blown  over !     Now  up  and  then 

down, 

Alone  and  in  couples,  sweet  women  did  pass, 
Silent  and  dreamy,  as  if  seen  in  a  glass, 
Half  mask'd  to  the  eyes,  in  their  Adrian  town. 
Such  women !     It  breaks  one's  heart  to  think. 
Water!  and  never  one  drop  to  drink! 
What  types  of  Titian!     What  glory  of  hair! 
How  tall  as  the  sisters  of  Saul !    How  fair ! 
Sweet  flowers  of  flesh,  and  all  blossoming, 
As  if  'twere  in  Eden,  and  in  Eden's  spring. 

"They  are  talking  aloud  with  eloquent  eyes, 
Yet  passing  me  by  with  never  one  word. 
O  pouting  sweet  lips,  do  you  know  there  are  lies 

[19] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


That  are  told  with  the  eyes,  and  never  once 
heard 

Above  a  heart's  beat  when  the  soul  is  stirr'd? 

It  is  time  to  fly  home,  O  doves  of  St.  Mark! 

Take  boughs  of  the  olive ;  bear  these  to  your  ark, 

And  rest  and  be  glad,  for  the  seas  and  the  skies 

Of  Venice  are  fair.  .  .  .  What !  wouldn't  go 
home? 

What!  drifting,  and  drifting  as  the  soil'd  sea- 
foam? 

"And  who  then  are  you?     You,  masked  and 

so  fair? 

Your  half  seen  face  is  a  rose  full  blown, 
Down  under  your  black  and  abundant  hair?  .  .  . 
A  child  of  the  street,  and  unloved  and  alone ! 
Unloved;   and  alone?     .     .     .     There  is   some- 
thing then 

Between  us  two  that  is  not  unlike!     .     .     . 
The  strength  and  the  purposes  of  men 
Fall  broken  idols.     We  aim  and  strike 
With  high-born  zeal  and  with  proud  intent. 
Yet  let  life  turn  on  some  accident.     .     .     . 

"Nay,  I'll  not  preach.     Time's  lessons  pass 
Like  twilight's  swallows.     They  chirp  in  their 

flight, 

And  who  takes  heed  of  the  wasting  glass? 
Night  follows  day,  and  day  follows  night, 
And  no  thing  rises  on  earth  but  to  fall 
Like  leaves,  with  their  lessons  most  sad  and  fit. 
They  are  spread  like  a  volume  each  year  to  all; 
Yet  men  or  women  learn  naught  of  it, 
Or  after  it  all  but  a  weariness 
Of  soul  and  body  and  untold  distress* 

[20] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


"Yea,  sit,  lorn  child,  by  my  side,  and  we, 
We  will  talk  of  the  world.     Nay,  let  my  hand 
Fall  kindly  to  yours,  and  so,  let  your  face 
Fall  fair  to  my  shoulder,  and  you  shall  be 
My  dream  of  sweet  Italy.     Here  in  this  place, 
Alone  in  the  crowds  of  this  old  careless  land, 
I  shall  shelter  your  form  till  the  morn  and  then — 
Why,  I  shall  return  to  the  world  and  to  men, 
And  you,  not  stain'd  for  one  strange,  kind  word 
And  my  three  last  francs,  for  a  lorn  night  bird. 

"Fear  nothing  from  me,  nay,  never  once  fear. 
The  day,  my  darling,  comes  after  the  night. 
The  nights  they  were  made  to  show  the  light 
Of  the  stars  in  heaven,  though  the  storms  be 

near.     .     .     . 

Do  you  see  that  figure  of  Fortune  up  there, 
That  tops  the  Dogana  with  toe  a-tip 
Of  the  great  gold  ball?     Her  scroll  is  a-trip 
To  the  turning  winds.     She  is  light  as  the  air. 
Her  foot  is  set  upon  plenty's  horn, 
Her  fair  face  set  to  the  coming  morn. 

"Well,  trust  we  to  Fortune.     .     .     .     Bread 

on  the  wave 

Turns  ever  ashore  to  the  hand  that  gave. 
What  am  I?    A  poet — a  lover  of  all 
That  is  lovely  to  see.     Nay,   naught  shall  be- 
fall.    .     .     . 

Yes,  I  am  a  failure.     I  plot  and  I  plan, 
Give  splendid  advice  to  my  fellow-man, 
Yet  ever  fall  short  of  achievement.     .     .     .    Ah 

me! 

In  my  lorn  life's  early,  sad  afternoon, 
Say,  what  have  I  left  but  a  rhyme  or  a  rune? 

[21] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


An  empty  frail  hand  for  some  soul  at  sea, 
Some  fair,   forbidden,  sweet  fruit  to  choose, 
That  'twere  sin  to  touch,  and — sin  to  refuse? 

"What !    I  go  drifting  with  you,  girl,  to-night? 
To  sit  at  your  side  and  to  call  you  love? 
Well,  that  were  a  fancy !    To  feed  a  dove, 
A  poor  soil'd  dove  of  this  dear  Saint  Mark, 
Too  frighten'd  to  rest  and  too  weary  for  flight. . . 
Aye,  just  three  francs,  my  fortune.    There !    He 
Who  feeds  the  sparrows  for  this  will  feed  me. 
Now  here  'neath  the  lion,  alone  in  the  dark, 
And  side  by  side  let  us  sit,  poor  dear, 
Breathing  the  beauty  as  an  atmosphere 

"We  will  talk  of  your  loves,  I  write  tales  of 

love . . . 
What!     Cannot  read?     Why,  you  never  heard 

then 

Of  your  Desdemona,  nor  the  daring  men 
Who  died  for  her  love?     My  poor  white  dove, 
There's  a  story  of  Shylock  would  drive  you  wild. 
What!     Never  have  heard  of  these  stories,  my 

child? 
Of   Tasso,    of    Petrarch?     Not   the    Bridge    of 

Sighs? 

Not  the  tale  of  Ferrara  ?    Not  the  thousand  whys 
That  your  Venice  was  ever  adored  above 
All  other  fair  lands  for  her  stories  of  love? 

"What    then    about    Shylock?      'Twas    gold. 

Yes — dead. 

The  lady  ?    'Twas  love. . .  .Why,  yes ;  she  too 
Is  dead.    And  Byron  ?    'Twas  fame.    Ah,  true. . . 
Tasso  and  Petrarch?    All  died,  just  the  same. . . 

[22] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Yea,  so  endeth  all,  as  you  truly  have  said, 
And  you,  poor  girl,  are  too  wise;  and  you, 
Too  sudden  and  swift  in  your  hard,  ugly  youth, 
Have  stumbled  face  fronting  an  obstinate  truth. 
For  whether  for  love,  for  gold,  or  for  fame, 
They  but  lived  their  day,  and  they  died  the  same. 

But  let's  talk  not  of  death?  Of  death  or  the  life 
That  comes  after  death  ?  'Tis  beyond  your  reach, 
And  this  too  much  thought  has  a  sense  of 

strife 

Ah,  true ;  I  promised  you  not  to  preach. . . . 
My  maid  of  Venice,  or  maid  unmade, 
Hold  close  your  few  francs  and  be  not  afraid. 
What!    Say  you  are  hungry?    Well,  let  us  dine 
Till  the  near  morn  comes  on  the  silver  shine 
Of  the  lamp-lit  sea.    At  the  dawn  of  day, 
My  sad  child-woman,  you  can  go  your  way. 

"What!     You  have  a  palace?     I  know  your 

town; 

Know  every  nook  of  it,  left  and  right, 
As  well  as  yourself.    Why,  far  up  and  down 
Your  salt  flood  streets,  lo,  many  a  night 
I  have  row'd  and  have  roved  in  my  lorn  despair 
Of  love  upon  earth,  and  I  know  well  there 
Is  no  such  palace.     What!  and  you  dare 
To  look  in  my  face  and  to  lie  outright, 
To  lift  your  face,  and  to  frown  me  down? 
There  is  no  such  palace  in  that  part  of  the  town ! 

"You  would  woo  me  away  to  your  rickety 

boat! 

You  would  pick  my  pockets !    You  would  cut  my 
throat, 

[23] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


With  help  of  your  pirates !    Then  throw  me  out 
Loaded  with  stones  to  sink  me  down, 
Down  into  the  filth  and  the  dregs  of  your  town ! 
Why,  that  is  your  damnable  aim,  no  doubt! 
And,  my  plaintive  voiced  child,  you  seem  too  fair, 
Too  fair,  for  even  a  thought  like  that ; 
Too  fair  for  ever  such  sin  to  dare — 
Ay,  even  the  tempter  to  whisper  at. 

"Now,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  true, 
True,  even  in  villainy.    Listen  to  me: 
Black-skinn'd  women  and  low-brow'd  men, 
And  desperate  robbers  and  thieves;  and  then, 

Why,    there    are    the    pirates ! Ay,    pirates 

reform' d — 

Pirates  reform' d  and  unreform'd; 
Pirates  for  me  girl,  friends  for  you, — 
And  these  are  your  neighbors.    And  so  you  see 
That  I  know  your  town,  your  neighbors ;  and  I — 
Well,  pardon  me,  dear — but  I  know  you  lie. 

"Tut,  tut,  my  beauty !    What  trickery  now  ? 
Why,  tears  through  your  hair  on  my  hand  like 

rain! 

Come !  look  in  my  face :  laugh,  lie  again 
With  your  wonderful  eyes.    Lift  up  your  brow, 
Laugh  in  the  face  of  the  world,  and  lie ! 
Now,  come!     This  lying  is  no  new  thing. 
The  wearers  of  laces  know  well  how  to  lie, 
As  well,  ay,  better,  than  you  or  I. ... 
But  they  lie  for  fortune,  for  fame :  instead, 
You,  child  of  the  street,  only  lie  for  your  bread. 


[24] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


"Some  sounds  blow  in  from  the  distant 

land. 

The  bells  strike  sharp,  and  as  out  of  tune, 
Some  sudden,  short  notes.    To  the  east  and  afar, 
And  up  from  -the  sea,  there  is  lifting  a  star 
As  large,  my  beautiful  child,  and  as  white 
And  as  lovely  to  see  as  some  lady's  white  hand. 
The  people  have  melted  away  with  the  night, 
And  not  one  gondola  frets  the  lagoon. 
See!     Away  to  the  mountain,  the  face  of  morn. 
Hear!     Away  to  the   sea — 'tis   the   fisherman's 
horn. 

"'Tis  morn  in  Venice !    My  child,  adieu ! 
Arise,  sad  sister,  and  go  your  way; 
And  as  for  myself,  why,  much  like  you, 
I  shall  sell  the  story  to  who  will  pay 
And  dares  to  reckon  it  true  and  meet. 
Yea,  each  of  us  traders,  poor  child  of  pain; 
For  each  must  barter  for  bread  to  eat 
In  a  world  of  trade  and  an  age  of  gain ; 
With  just  this  difference,  waif  of  the  street, 
You  sell  your  body,  I  sell  my  brain. 

"Poor  lost  little  vessel,  with  never  a  keel. 
Saint  Marks,  what  a  wreck!    Lo,  here  you  reel, 
With  never  a  soul  to  advise  or  to  care ; 
All  cover'd  with  sin  to  the  brows  and  hair, 
You  lie  like  a  seaweed,  well  a-strand ; 
Blown  like  the  sea-kelp  hard  on  the  shale, 
A  half-drown'd  body,  with  never  a  hand 
Reach'd  out  to  help  where  you  falter  and  fail : 
Left  stranded  alone  to  starve  and  to  die, 
Or  to  sell  your  body  to  who  may  buy. 

[25] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


"My  sister  of  sin,  I  will  kiss  you !     Yea, 
I  will  fold  you,  hold  you  close  to  my  breast ; 
And  here  as  you  rest  in  your  first  fair  rest, 
As  night  is  push'd  back  from  the  face  of  day, 
I  will  push  your  heavy,  dark  heaven  of  hair 
Well  back  from  your  brow,  and  kiss  you  where 
Your  ruffian,  bearded,  black  men  of  crime 
Have  stung  you  and  stain'd  you  a  thousand  time ; 
I  will  call  you  my  sister,  sweet  child,  and  keep 
You  close  to  my  heart,  lest  you  wake  but  to  weep. 

"I  will  tenderly  kiss  you,  and  I  shall  not  be 
Ashamed,   nor   yet   stain'd   in  the   least,    sweet 

dove, — 

I  will  tenderly  kiss,  with  the  kiss  of  Love, 
And  of  Faith,  and  of  Hope,  and  of  Charity. 
Nay,  I  shall  be  purer  and  be  better  then ; 
For,  child  of  the  street,  you,  living  or  dead, 
Stain'd  to  the  brows,  are  purer  to  me 
Ten  thousand  times  than  the  world  of  men, 
Who  reach  you  a  hand  but  to  lead  you  astray, — 
But  the  dawn  is  upon  us.    There !  go  your  way. 

"And  take  great  courage.    Take  courage  and 

.  say> 

Of  this  one  Christmas  when  I  am  away, 

Roving  the  world  and  forgetful  of  you, 

That  I  found  you  as  white  as  the  snow  and  knew 

You  but  needed  a  word  to  keep  you  true. 

When  you  fall  weary  and  so  need  rest, 

Then   find   kind   words   hidden   down   in   your 

breast ; 

And  if  rough  men  question  you, — why,  then  say 
That  Madonna  sent  them.  Then  kneel  and  pray, 
And  pray  for  me,  the  worse  of  the  two : 

]26[ 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Then  God  will  bless  you,  sweet  child,  and  I 
Shall  be  the  better  when  I  come  to  die. 

"Yea,  take  great  courage,  it  will  be  as  bread; 
Have   faith,   have   faith   while   this   day   wears 

through. 

Then  rising  ref  resh'd,  try  virtue  instead ; 
Be  stronger  and  better,  poor,  pitiful  dear, 
So  prompt  with  a  lie,  so  prompt  with  a  tear, 
For  the  hand  grows  stronger  as  the  heart  grows 

true. . . . 

Take  courage,  my  child,  for  I  promise  you 
We  are  judged  by  our  chances  of  life  and  lot; 
And  your  poor  soul  may  yet  pass  through 
The  eye  of  the  needle,  where  laces  shall  not. 

"Sad  dove  of  the  dust,  with  tear-wet  wings, 
Homeless  and  lone  as  the  dove  from  its  ark, — 
Do  you  reckon  yon  angel  that  tops  St.  Mark, 
That  tops  the  tower,  that  tops  the  town, 
If  he  knew  us  two,  if  he  knew  all  things, 
Would  say,  or  think,  you  are  worse  than  I? 
Do  you  reckon  yon  angel,  now  looking  down, 
Far  down  like  a  star,  he  hangs  so  high, 
Could  tell  which  one  were  the  worse  of  us  two? 
Child  of  the  street — it  is  not  you ! 

"If  we  two  were  dead,  and  laid  side  by  side 
Right  here  on  the  pavement,  this  very  day, 
Here  under  the  sun-flushed  maiden  sky, 
Where  the  morn  flows  in  like  a  rosy  tide, 
And  the  sweet  Madonna  that  stands  in  the  moon, 
With  her  crown  of  stars,  just  across  the  lagoon, 
Should  come  and  should  look  upon  you  and  I, — 
Do  you  reckon,  my  child,  that  she  would  decide 

[27] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


As  men  do  decide  and  as  women  do  say, 
That  you  are  so  dreadful,  and  turn  away? 

"If  angels  were  sent  to  choose  this  day 
Between  us  two  as  we  rest  here, 
Here  side  by  side  in  this  storied  place, — 
If  angels  were  sent  to  choose,  I  say, 
This  very  moment  the  best  of  the  two, 
You,  white  with  a  hunger  and  stain' d  with  a  tear, 
Or  I,  the  rover  the  wide  world  through, 
Restless  and  stormy  as  any  sea, — 
Looking  us  two  right  straight  in  the  face, 
Child  of  the  street,  he  would  not  choose  me. 

"The  fresh  sun  is  falling  on  turret  and  tower, 
The  far  sun  is  flashing  on  spire  and  dome, 
The  marbles  of  Venice  are  bursting  to  flower, 
The  marbles  of  Venice  are  flower  and  foam: 
Good  night  and  good  morn;  I  must  leave  you 

now. 

There !  bear  my  kiss  on  your  pale,  soft  brow 
Through  earth  to  heaven:  and  when  we  shall 

meet 

Beyond  the  darkness,  poor  waif  of  the  street, 
Why,  then  I  shall  know  you,  my  sad,  sweet  dove ; 
Shall  claim  you,  and  kiss  you,  with  the  kiss  of 

love." 


[28] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


COMO 

The  lakes  lay  bright  as  bits  of  broken  moon 
Just  newly  set  within  the  cloven  earth; 
The  ripen'd  fields  drew  round  a  golden  girth 
Far  up  the  steeps,  and  glittered  in  the  noon ; 
And  when  the  sun  fell  down,  from  leafy  shore 
Fond  lovers  stole  in  pairs  to  ply  the  oar ; 
The  stars,  as  large  as  lilies,  fleck' d  the  blue ; 
From  out  the  Alps  the  moon   came  wheeling 

through 
The  rocky  pass  the  great  Napoleon  knew. 

A  gala  night  it  was, — the  season's  prime. 
We  rode  from  castled  lake  to  festal  town, 
To  fair  Milan — my  friend  and  I;  rode  down 
By  night,  where  grasses  waved  in  rippled  rhyme : 
And  so,  what  theme  but  love  at  such  a  time? 
His  proud  lip  cuiTd  the  while  with  silent  scorn 
At  thought  of  love ;  and  then,  as  one  forlorn, 
He  sigh'd;  then  bared  his  temples,  dash'd  with 

gray; 
Then  mock'd,  as  one  outworn  and  well  blase. 

A  gorgeous  tiger  lily,  flaming  red, — 
So  full  of  battle,  of  the  trumpets  blare, 
Of  old-time  passion,  uprear'd  its  head. 
I  gallop'd  past.    I  lean'd.    I  clutch'd  it  there 
From  out  the  stormy  grass.    I  held  it  high, 
And  cried:     "Lo!  this  to-night  shall  deck  her 

hair 
Through  all  the  dance.    And  mark !  the  man  shall 

die 

Who  dares  assault,  for  good  or  ill  design, 
The  citadel  where  I  shall  set  this  sign." 

[29] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND  OTHERS 


O,  she  shone  fairer  than  the  summer  star, 
Or  curl'd  sweet  moon  in  middle  destiny ; 
More  fair  than  sun-morn  climbing  up  the  sea, 

Where  all  the  loves  of  Adriana  are 

Who  loves,  who  truly  loves,  will  stand  aloof: 
The  noisy  tongue  makes  most  unholy  proof 

Of  shallow  passion All  the  while  afar 

From  out  the  dance  I  stood  and  watched  my  star, 
My  tiger  lily  borne,  an  oriflamme  of  war. 

Adown  the  dance  she  moved  with  matchless 

grace. 
The      world — my     world — moved      with      her. 

Suddenly 

I  question'd  whom  her  cavalier  might  be? 
'Twas  he !    His  face  was  leaning  to  her  face ! 
I   clutch'd   my  blade;   I   sprang,   I   caught  my 

breathy — 

And  so,  stood  leaning  cold  and  still  as  death. 
And  they  stood  still.    She  blushed,  then  reach'd 

and  tore 

The  lily  as  she  pass'd,  and  down  the  floor 
She  strew'd  its  heart  like  jets  of  gushing  gore. . . 

'Twas  he  said  heads,  not  hearts,  were  made  to 

break : 

He  taught  her  this  that  night  in  splendid  scorn. 
I  learn'd  too  well The  dance  was  done,  ere 

morn 

We  mounted — he  and  I — but  no  more  spake 

And  this  for  woman's  love !  My  lily  worn 
In  her  dark  hair  in  pride,  to  then  be  torn 
And  trampled  on,  for  this  bold  stranger's 

sake ! 

Two  men  rode  silent  back  toward  the  lake ; 

[30] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND    OTHERS 


Two  men  rode  silent  down — but  only  one 
Rode  up  at  morn  to  meet  the  rising  sun. 

The  red-clad  fishers  row  and  creep 
Below  the  crags  as  half  asleep, 
Nor  ever  make  a  single  sound. 
The  walls  are  steep, 
The  waves  are  deep; 
And  if  a  dead  man  should  be  found 
By  these  same  fishers  in  their  round, 
Why,  who  shall  say  but  he  was  drown'd? 


31] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 



SUNRISE    IN    VENICE 

Night  seems  troubled  and  scarce  asleep; 
Her  brows  are  gather'd  as  in  broken  rest. 
A  star  in  the  east  starts  up  from  the  deep ! 
"Tis  morn,  new-born,  with  a  star  on  her  breast, 
White  as  my  lilies  that  grow  in  the  West! 
Hist!  men  are  passing  me  hurriedly. 
I  see  the  yellow,  wide  wings  of  a  bark, 
Sail  silently  over  my  morning  star. 
I  see  men  move  in  the  moving  dark, 
Tall  and  silent  as  columns  are; 
Great,  sinewy  men  that  are  good  to  see, 
With  hair  push'd  back,  and  with  open  breasts; 
Barefooted  fishermen,  seeking  their  boats, 
Brown  as  walnuts,  and  hairy  as  goats, — 
Brave  old  water-dogs,  wed  to  the  sea, 
First  to  their  labors  and  last  to  their  rests. 

Ships  are  moving.    I  hear  a  horn, — 
Answers  back,  and  again  it  calls. 
'Tis  the  sentinel  boats  that  watch  the  town 
All  night,  as  mounting  her  watery  walls, 
And  watching  for  pirate  or  smuggler.     Down 
Over  the  sea,  and  reaching  away, 
And  against  the  east,  a  soft  light  falls, 
Silvery  soft  as  the  mist  of  morn, 
And  I  catch  a  breath  like  the  breath  of  day. 

The  east  is  blossoming!    Yea,  a  rose, 
Vast  as  the  heavens,  soft  as  a  kiss, 
Sweet  as  the  presence  of  woman  is, 
Rises  and  reaches,  and  widens  and  grows 
Large  and  luminous  up  from  the  sea, 
And  out  of  the  sea  as  a  blossoming  tree. 

[32] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Richer  and  richer,  so  higher  and  higher,  ^ 

Deeper  and  deeper  it  takes  its  hue; 
Brighter  and  brighter  it  reaches  through 
The  space  of  heaven  to  the  place  of  stars. 
Then  beams  reach  upward  as  arms,  from  the  sea ; 
Then  lances  and  arrows  are  aimed  at  me. 
Then  lances  and  spangles  and  spars  and  bars 
Are  broken  and  shiver'd  and  strown  on  the  sea; 
And  around  and  about  me  tower  and  spire 
Start  from  the  billows  like  tongues  of  fire. 


[33] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


VALE!   AMERICA 

Let  me  rise  and  go  forth.    A  far,  dim  spark 
Illumes  my  path.    The  light  of  my  day 
Hath  fled,  and  yet  am  I  far  away. 
The  bright,  bent  moon  has  dipp'd  her  horn 
In  the  darkling  sea.    High  up  in  the  dark 
The  wrinkled  old  lion,  he  looks  away 

To  the  east,  and  impatient  as  if  for  morn 

I  have  gone  the  girdle  of  earth,  and  say, 
What  have  I  gain'd  but  a  temple  gray, 
Two  crow's  feet,  and  a  heart  forlorn? 

A  star  starts  yonder  like  a  soul  afraid ! 
It  falls  like  a  thought  through  the  great  profound. 
Fearfully  swift  and  with  never  a  sound, 
It  fades  into  nothing,  as  all  things  fade ; 
Yea,  as  all  things  fail.    And  where  is  the  leaven 
In  the  pride  of  a  name  or  a  proud  man's  nod  ? 
Oh,  tiresome,  tiresome  stairs  to  heaven! 
Weary,  oh,  wearysome  ways  to  God! 
'Twere  better  to  sit  with  the  chin  on  the  palm, 
Slow  tapping  the  sand,  come  storm,  come  calm. 

I  have  lived  from  within  and  not  from  without ; 
I  have  drunk  from  a  fount,  have  fed  from  a  hand 
That  no  man  knows  who  lives  upon  land; 
And  yet  my  soul  it  is  crying  out. 
I  care  not  a  pin  for  the  praise  of  men; 
But  I  hunger  for  love.    I  starve,  I  die, 
Each  day  of  my  life.     Ye  pass  me  by 
Each  day,  and  laugh  as  ye  pass;  and  when 
Ye  come,  I  start  in  my  place  as  ye  come, 
And  lean,  and  would  speak, — but  my  lips  are 
dumb. 

[34] 


SONGS   OF   ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


Yon  sliding  stars  and  the  changeful  moon. . . . 
Let  me  rest  on  the  plains  of  Lombardy  for  aye, 
Or  sit  down  by  this  Adrian  Sea  and  die. 
The  days  that  do  seem  as  some  afternoon 
They  all  are  here.    I  am  strong  and  true 
To  myself;  can  pluck  and  could  plant  anew 
My  heart,  and  grow  tall ;  could  come  to  be 
Another  being;  lift  bolder  hand 
And  conquer.    Yet  ever  will  come  to  me 
The  thought  that  Italia  is  not  my  land. 

Could  I  but  return  to  my  woods  once  more, 
And  dwell  in  their  depths  as  I  have  dwelt, 
Kneel  in  their  mosses  as  I  have  knelt, 
Sit  where  the  cool  white  rivers  run, 
Away  from  the  world  and  half  hid  from  the  sun, 
Hear  winds  in  the  wood  of  my  storm-torn  shore, 
To  tread  where  only  the  red  man  trod, 
To  say  no  word,  but  listen  to  God ! 
Glad  to  the  heart  with  listening, — 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  then  could  sing, 
And  sing  as  never  sung  man  before. 

But  deep-tangled  woodland  and  wild  waterfall, 

0  farewell  for  aye,  till  the  Judgment  Day! 

1  shall  see  you  no  more,  O  land  of  mine,, 
O  half-aware  land,  like  a  child  at  play! 

O  voiceless  and  vast  as  the  push'd-back  skies! 
No  more,  blue  seas  in  the  blest  sunshine, 
No  more,  black  woods  where  the  white  peaks  rise, 
No  more,  bleak  plains  where  the  high  winds  fall, 
Or  the  red  man  keeps  or  the  shrill  birds  call ! 


[35 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


I  must  find  diversion  with  another  kind : 
There  are  roads  on  the  land,  broad  roads  on  the 

sea; 

Take  ship  and  sail,  and  sail  till  I  find 
The  love  that  I  sought  from  eternity; 
Run  away  from  oneself,  take  ship  and  sail 
The  middle  white  seas;  see  turban'd  men, — 
Throw  thought  to  the  dogs  for  aye.    And  when 
All  seas  are  travel'd  and  all  scenes  fail, 
Why,  then  this  doubtful,  sad  gift  of  verse 
May  save  me  from  death — or  something  worse. 

My  hand  it  is  weary,  and  my  harp  unstrung ; 
And  where  is  the  good  that  I  pipe  or  sing, 
Fashion  new  notes,  or  shape  any  thing? 
The  songs  of  my  rivers  remain  unsung 

Henceforward  for  me But  a  man  shall  arise 

From  the  far,  vast  valleys  of  the  Occident, 
With  hand  on  a  harp  of  gold,  and  with  eyes 
That  lift  with  glory  and  a  proud  intent ; 
Yet  so  gentle  indeed,  that  his  sad  heartstrings 
Shall  thrill  to  the  heart  of  your  heart  as  he  sings. 

Let  the  wind  sing  songs  in  the  lake-side  reeds, 
Lo,  I  shall  be  less  than  the  indolent  wind ! 
Why  should  I  sow,  when  I  reap  and  bind 
And  gather  in  nothing  but  the  thistle  weeds  ? 
It  is  best  I  abide,  let  what  will  befall ; 
To  rest  if  I  can,  let  time  roll  by: 
Let  others  endeavor  to  learn,  while  I, 
With  naught  to  conceal,  with  much  to  regret, 
Shall  sit  and  endeavor,  alone,  to  forget. 

Shall  I  shape  pipes  from  these  seaside  reeds, 
And  play  for  the  children,  that  shout  and  call? 

[36] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Lo!  men  they  have  mock'd  me  the  whole  year 

through ! 

I  shall  sing  no  more. . .  .1  shall  find  in  old  creeds, 
And  in  quaint  old  tongues,  a  world  that  is  new ; 
And  these,  I  will  gather  the  sweets  of  them  all. 
And  the  old-time  doctrines  and  the  old-time  signs, 
I  will  taste  of  them  all,  as  tasting  old  wines. 

I  will  find  new  thought,  as  a  new-found  vein 
Of  rock-lock'd  gold  in  my  far,  fair  West. 
I  will  rest  and  forget,  will  entreat  to  be  blest ; 
Take  up  new  thought  and  again  grow  young; 
Yea,  take  a  new  world  as  one  born  again, 
And  never  hear  more  mine  own  mother  tongue; 
Nor  miss  it.    Why  should  I  ?    I  never  once  heard, 
In  my  land's  language,  love's  one  sweet  word. 

Did  I  court  fame,  or  the  favor  of  man? 
Make  war  upon  creed,  or  strike  hand  with  clan? 
I  sang  my  songs  of  the  sounding  trees, 
As  careless  of  name  or  of  fame  as  the  seas; 
And  these  I  sang  for  the  love  of  these, 
And  the  sad  sweet  solace  they  brought  to  me. 
I  but  sang  for  myself,  touch'd  here,  touch'd  there, 
As  a  strong-wing'd  bird  that  flies  anywhere. 

How  do  I  wander !    And  yet  why  not  ? 

I  once  had  a  song,  told  a  tale  in  rhyme; 

Wrote  books,  indeed,  in  my  proud  young  prime ; 

I  aim'd  at  the  heart  like  a  musket  ball ; 

I  struck  cursed  folly  like  a  cannon  shot, — 

And  where  is  the  glory  or  good  of  it  all? 

Yet  these  did  I  write  for  my  land,  but  this 

I  write  for  myself, — and  it  is  as  it  is. 

[37] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Yea,  storms  have  blown  counter  and  shaken 

me. 

And  yet  was  I  fashion'd  for  strife,  and  strong 
And  daring  of  heart,  and  born  to  endure; 
My  soul  sprang  upward,  my  feet  felt  sure ; 
My  faith  was  as  wide  as  a  wide-bough'd  tree. 
But  there  be  limits;  and  a  sense  of  wrong 
Forever  before  you  will  make  you  less 
A  man,  than  a  man  at  first  would  guess. 

Good  men  can  forgive — and,  they  say,  forget. . . 
Far  less  of  the  angel  than  Indian  is  set 
In  my  fierce  nature.    And  I  look  away 
To  a  land  that  is  dearer  than  this,  and  say, 
"I  shall  remember,  though  you  may  forget. 
Yea,  I  shall  remember  for  aye  and  a  day 
The  keen  taunts  thrown  in  a  boy  face,  when 
He  cried  unto  God  for  the  love  of  men." 

Enough,  ay  and  more  than  enough,  of  this ! 
I  know  that  the  sunshine  must  follow  the  rain  ; 
And  if  this  be  the  winter,  why  spring  again 
Must  come  in  its  season,  full  blossom'd  with  bliss. 
I  will  lean  to  the  storm,  though  the  winds  blow 

strong. . . . 
Yea,  the  winds  they  have  blown  and  have  shaken 

me — 
As  the  winds  blow  songs  through  a  shattered  old 

tree, 
They  have  blown  this  broken  and  careless  set 

song. 

They  have  sung  this  song,  be  it  never  bad; 
Have  blown  upon  me  and  play'd  upon  me, 
Have  broken  the  notes, — blown  sad,  blown  glad; 

[38] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Just  as  the  winds  blow  fierce  and  free 
A  barren,  a  blighted,  and  a  cursed  fig  tree. 
And  if  I  grow  careless  and  heed  no  whit 
Whether  it  please  or  what  comes  of  it, 
Why,  talk  to  the  winds,  then,  and  not  to  me. 


The  quest  of  love  ?    Tis  the  quest  of  troubles ; 
Tis  the  wind  through  the  woods  of  the  Oregon. 
Sit  down,  sit  down,  for  the  world  goes  on 
Precisely  the  same ;  and  the  rainbow  bubbles 
Of  love,  they  gather,  or  break,  or  blow, 
Whether  you  bother  your  brain  or  no; 
And  for  all  your  troubles  and  all  your  tears, 
'Twere  just  the  same  in  a  hundred  years. 

By  the  populous  land,  or  the  lonesome  sea, 
Lo !  these  were  the  gifts  of  the  gods  to  men, — 
Three  miserable  gifts,  and  only  three: 
To  love,  to  forget,  and  to  die — and  then? 
To  love  in  peril,  and  bitter-sweet  pain, 
And  then,  forgotten,  lie  down  and  die: 
One  moment  of  sun,  whole  seasons  of  rain, 
Then  night  is  roll'd  to  the  door  of  the  sky. 

To  love?    To  sit  at  her  feet  and  to  weep; 
To  climb  to  her  face,  hide  your  face  in  her  hair ; 
To  nestle  you  there  like  a  babe  in  its  sleep, 
And,  too,  like  a  babe,  to  believe — it  stings  there ! 
To  love !    'Tis  to  suffer,    "Lie  close  to  my  breast, 
Like  a  fair  ship  in  haven,  O  darling!"  I  cried. 
"Your  round  arms  outreaching  to  heaven  for 
rest 

[39] 


SONGS   OF   ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


Make  signal  to  death." Death  came,  and  love 

died. 
To  forget?    To  forget,  mount  horse  and  clutch 

sword ; 

Take  ship  and  make  sail  to  the  ice-prison'd  seas, 
Write  books  and  preach  lies ;  range  lands ;  or  go 

hoard 
A  grave  full  of  gold,  and  buy  wines — and  drink 

lees: 

Then  die;  and  die  cursing,  and  call  it  a  prayer! 
Is  earth  but  a  top — a  boy-god's  delight, 
To  be  spun  for  his  pleasure,  while  man's  despair 
Breaks  out  like  a  wail  of  the  damn'd  through  the 

night  ? 

Sit  down  in  the  darkness  and  weep  with  me 
On  the  edge  of  the  world.    Lo,  love  lies  dead ! 
And  the  earth  and  the  sky,  and  the  sky  and  the 

sea, 

Seem  shutting  together  as  a  book  that  is  read. 
Yet  what  have  we  learn'd?  We  laugh'd  with 

delight 

In  the  morning  at  school,  and  kept  toying  with  all 
Time's  silly  playthings.  Now  wearied  ere  night, 
We  must  cry  for  dark-mother,  her  cradle  the  pall. 

'Twere  better  blow  trumpets  'gainst  love,  keep 

away 

That  traitorous  urchin  with  fire  or  shower, 
Than  have  him  come  near  you  for  one  little  hour. 
Take  physic,  consult  with  your  doctor,  as  you 
Would  fight  a  contagion;  carry  all  through 
The  populous  day  some  drug  that  smells  loud, 
As  you  pass  on  your  way,  or  make  way  through 

the  crowd. 

[40] 


SONGS   OF   ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


Talk  war,  or  carouse ;  only  keep  off  the  day 
Of  his  coming,  with  every  hard  means  in  your 
way. 

Blow  smoke  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  laugh 
With  the  broad-chested  men,  as  you  loaf  at  your 

inn, 
As  you  crowd  to  your  inn  from  your  saddle  and 

quaff 
Red  wine  from  a  horn ;  while  your  dogs  at  your 

feet, 
Your  slim  spotted  dogs,  like  the  fawn,  and  as 

fleet, 

Crouch  patiently  by  and  look  up  at  your  face, 
As  they  wait  for  the  call  of  the  horn  to  the  chase ; 
For  you  shall  not  suffer,  and  you  shall  not  sin, 
Until  peace  goes  out  just  as  love  comes  in. 

Love  horses   and   hounds,   meet  many   good 

men — 
Yea,  men  are  most  proper,  and  keep  you  from 

care. 
There  is  strength  in  a  horse.    There  is  pride  in 

his  will; 
It  is  sweet  to  look  back  as  you  climb  the  steep 

hill. 
There  is  room.    You  have  movement  of  limb ;  you 

have  air, 
Have  the  smell  of  the  wood,  of  the  grasses ;  and 

then 
What  comfort  to  rest,  as  you  lie  thrown  full 

length 
All   night   and   alone,   with   your   fists    full   of 

strength ! 

[41] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Go  away,  go  away  with  your  bitter-sweet  pain 
Of  love ;  for  love  is  the  story  of  troubles, 
Of  troubles  and  love,  that  travel  together 
The  round  world  round.     Behold  the  bubbles 
Of  love!    Then  troubles  and  turbulent  weather. 
Why,  man  had  all  Eden !    Then  love,  then  Cain ! 


*  I  do  not  like  this  bit  of  impatience,  nor  do  I  expect  any  one 
else  to  like  it  and  only  preserve  it  here  as  a  sort  of  landmark  or 
journal  in  my  journey  through  life.  It  is  only  an  example  of 
almost  an  entire  book,  written  in  Italy.  I  had,  after  a  long 
struggle  with  myself,  settled  down  in  Italy  to  remain,  as  I 
believed,  and  as  you  can  see  was  very  miserable,  and  wrote 
accordingly. 


[42] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


ROME 


Some  leveled  hills,  a  wall,  a  dome 
That  lords  its  gold  cross  to  the  skies, 
While  at  its  base  a  beggar  cries 
For  bread,  and  dies,  and — this  is  Rome. 

II 

Yet  Rome  is  Rome,  and  Rome  she  must 
And  shall  remain  beside  her  gates, 
And  tribute  take  of  Kings  and  States, 
Until  the  stars  have  fallen  to  dust. 

Ill 

Yea,  Time  on  yon  Campagnan  plain 
Has  pitched  in  siege  his  battle-tents; 
And  round  about  her  battlements 
Has  marched  and  trumpeted  in  vain. 

IV 

These  skies  are  Rome!     The  very  loam 
Lifts  up  and  speaks  in  Roman  pride ; 
And  Time,  outfaced  and  still  defied, 
Sits  by  and  wags  his  beard  at  Rome. 


[43] 


SONGS   OF   ITALY  AND   OTHERS 



"POVERIS!    POVERIS!" 

"Feed  my  sheep!' 

Come,  let  us  ponder ;  it  is  fit — 
Born  of  the  poor,  born  to  the  poor, 
The  poor  of  purse,  the  poor  of  wit, 
Were  first  to  find  God's  opened  door — 
Were  first  to  climb  the  ladder  round  by  round 
That  fell  from  heaven's  door  unto  the  ground. 

God's  poor  came  first,  the  very  first ! 
God's  poor  were  first  to  see,  to  hear, 
To  feel  the  light  of  heaven  burst 
Full  on  their  faces.    Far  or  near, 
His  poor  were  first  to  follow,  first  to  fall! 
What  if  at  last  His  poor  stand  forth  the  first  of 
all? 


[44] 


SONGS   OF   ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


ATTILA'S    THRONE,    TORCELLO 

I  do  recall  some  sad  days  spent 
By  borders  of  the  Orient, 
'Twould  make  a  tale.    It  matters  not. 
I  sought  the  loneliest  seas ;  I  sought 
The  solitude  of  ruins,  and  forgot 
Mine  own  life  and  my  littleness 
Before  this  fair  land's  mute  distress. 

Slow  sailing  through  the  reedy  isles, 
Some  sunny  summer  yesterdays, 
I  watched  the  storied  yellow  sail, 
And  lifted  prow  of  steely  mail 
"Tis  all  that's  left  Torcello  now,— 
A  pirate's  yellow  sail,  a  prow. 

I  touch'd  Torcello.     Once  on  land, 
I  took  a  sea-shell  in  my  hand, 
And  blew  like  any  trumpeter. 
I  felt  the  fig  leaves  lift  and  stir 
On  trees  that  reach  from  ruin'd  wall 
Above  my  head, — but  that  was  all. 
Back  from  the  farther  island  shore 
Came  echoes  trooping — nothing  more. 

By  cattle  paths  grass-grown  and  worn, 
Through  marbled  streets  all  stain'd  and  torn 
By  time  and  battle,  lone  I  walk'd. 
A  bent  old  beggar,  white  as  one 
For  better  fruitage  blossoming, 
Came  on.    And  as  he  came  he  talk'd 
Unto  himself;  for  there  were  none 
In  all  his  island,  old  and  dim, 
To  answer  back  or  question  him. 

[45] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


I  turn'd,  retraced  my  steps  once  more. 

The  hot  miasma  steam'd  and  rose 

In  deadly  vapor  from  the  reeds 

That  grew  from  out  the  shallow  shore, 

Where  peasants  say  the  sea-horse  feeds, 

And  Neptune  shapes  his  horn  and  blows. 

Yet  here  stood  Adria  once,  and  here 
Attila  came  with  sword  and  flame, 
And  set  his  throne  of  hollow'd  stone 
In  her  high  mart.    And  it  remains 
Still  lord  o'er  all.    Where  once  the  tears 
Of  mute  petition  fell,  the  rains 
Of  heaven  fall.     Lo!  all  alone 
There  lifts  this  massive  empty  throne. 

I  climb'd  and  sat  that  throne  of  stone 
To  contemplate,  to  dream,  to  reign  — 
Ay,  reign  above  myself ;  to  call 
The  people  of  the  past  again 
Before  me  as  I  sat  alone 
In  all  my  kingdom.    There  were  kine 
That  browsed  along  the  reedy  brine, 
And  now  and  then  a  tusky  boar 
Would  shake  the  high  reeds  of  the  shore, 
A  bird  blow  by, — but  that  was  all. 

I  watch'd  the  lonesome  sea-gull  pass. 
I  did  remember  and  forget,  — 
The  past  roll'd  by;  I  lived  alone. 
I  sat  the  shapely,  chisell'd  stone 
That  stands  in  tall,  sweet  grasses  set ; 
Ay,  girdle  deep  in  long,  strong  grass, 
And  green  alfalfa.    Very  fair 
The  heavens  were,  and  still  and  blue, 

[46] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


For  Nature  knows  no  changes  there. 
The  Alps  of  Venice,  far  away, 
Like  some  half-risen  late  moon  lay. 

How  sweet  the  grasses  at  my  feet ! 
The  smell  of  clover  over-sweet. 
I  heard  the  hum  of  bees.    The  bloom 
Of  clover-tops  and  cherry-trees 
Was  being  rifled  by  the  bees, 
And  these  were  building  in  a  tomb. 
The  fair  alfalfa — such  as  has 
Usurp'd  the  Occident,  and  grows 
With  all  the  sweetness  of  the  rose 
On  Sacramento's  sundown  hills — 
Is  there,  and  that  dead  island  fills 
With  fragrance.    Yet  the  smell  of  death 
Comes  riding  in  on  every  breath. 

That  sad,  sweet  fragrance.    It  had  sense, 
And  sound,  and  voice.    It  was  a  part 
Of  that  which  had  possessed  my  heart, 
And  would  not  of  my  will  go  hence, 
'Twas  Autumn's  breath;  sad  as  the  kiss 
Of  some  sweet  worshipp'd  woman  is. 

Some  snails  had  climb'd  the  throne  and  writ 
Their  silver  monograms  on  it 
In  unknown  tongues.     I  sat  thereon, 
I  dream' d  until  the  day  was  gone ; 
I  blew  again  my  pearly  shell, — 
Blew  long  and  strong,  and  loud  and  well; 
I  pufFd  my  cheeks,  I  blew  as  when 
Horn'd  satyrs  piped  and  danced  as  men. 


[47] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Some  mouse-brown  cows  that  fed  within 
Look'd  up.    A  cowherd  rose  hard  by, 
My  single  subject,  clad  in  skin, 
Nor  yet  half-clad.    I  caught  his  eye,  — 
He  stared  at  me,  then  turn'd  and  fled. 
He  frighten'd  fled,  and  as  he  ran, 
Like  wild  beast  from  the  face  of  man, 
Back  o'er  his  shoulder  threw  his  head. 
He  stopp'd,  and  then  this  subject  true, 
Mine  only  one  in  all  the  isle, 
Turn'd  round,  and,  with  a  fawning  smile, 
Came  back  and  ask'd  me  for  a  sou! 


[48] 


SONGS   OF   ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


VENICE 

City  at  sea,  thou  art  surely  an  ark, 
Sea-blown  and  a-wreck  in  the  rain  and  dark, 
Where  the  white  sea-caps  are  so  toss'd  and  curl'd. 
Thy  sins  they  were  many — and  behold  the  flood ! 
And  here  and  about  us  are  beasts  in  stud. 
Creatures  and  beasts  that  creep  and  go, 
Enough,  ay,  and  wicked  enough  I  know, 
To  populate,  or  devour,  a  world. 

0  wrinkled  old  lion,  looking  down 
With  brazen  frown  upon  mine  and  me, 
From  tower  a-top  of  your  watery  town, 
Old  king  of  the  desert,  once  king  of  the  sea : 
List !  here  is  a  lesson  for  thee  to-day. 
Proud  and  immovable  monarch,  I  say, 

Lo !  here  is  a  lesson  to-day  for  thee, 

Of  the  things  that  were  and  the  things  to  be. 

Dank  palaces  held  by  the  populous  sea 
For  the  good  dead  men,  all  cover'd  with  shell, — 
We  will  pay  them  a  visit  some  day ;  and  we, 
We  may  come  to  love  their  old  palaces  well. 
Bah !  toppled  old  columns  all  tumbled  across, 
Toss'd  in  the  waters  that  lift  and  fall, 
Waving  in  waves  long  masses  of  moss, 
Toppled  old  columns, — and  that  will  be  all. 

1  know  you,  lion  of  gray  Saint  Mark; 
You  flutter'd  all  seas  beneath  your  wing. 
Now,  over  the  deep,  and  up  in  the  dark, 
High  over  the  girdles  of  bright  gaslight, 
With  wings  in  the  air  as  if  for  flight, 
And  crouching  as  if  about  to  spring 

[49] 


SONGS   OF   ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


• 

From  top  of  your  granite  of  Africa, — 
Say,  what  shall  be  said  of  you  some  day? 

What  shall  be  said,  O  grim  Saint  Mark, 
Savage  old  beast  so  cross'd  and  churl'd, 
By  the  after-men  from  the  under- world? 
What  shall  be  said  as  they  search  along 
And  sail  these  seas  for  some  sign  or  spark 
Of  the  old  dead  fires  of  the  dear  old  days, 
When  men  and  story  have  gone  their  ways, 
Or  even  your  city  and  name  from  song? 

Why,  sullen  old  monarch  of  still'd  Saint  Mark, 
Strange  men   of  my   West,   wise-mouth'd   and 

strong, 

Will  come  some  day  and,  gazing  long 
And  mute  with  wonder,  will  say  of  thee: 
"This  is  the  Saint!    High  over  the  dark, 
Foot  on  the  Bible  and  great  teeth  bare, 
Tail  whipp'd  back  and  teeth  in  the  air — 
Lo !  this  is  the  Saint,  and  none  but  he !" 


[50] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


A    HAILSTORM    IN    VENICE 

The  hail  like  cannon-shot  struck  the  sea 
And  churn'd  it  white  as  a  creamy  foam ; 
Then  hail  like  battle-shot  struck  where  we 
Stood  looking  a-sea  from  a  sea-girt  home — 
Came  shooting  askance  as  if  shot  at  the  head; 
Then  glass  flew  shiver' d  and  men  fell  down 
And  pray'd  where  they  fell,  and  the  gray  old  town 
Lay  riddled  and  helpless  as  if  shot  dead. 

Then  lightning  right  full  in  the  eyes !  and  then 
Fair  women  fell  down  flat  on  the  face, 
And  pray'd  their  pitiful  Mother  with  tears, 
And  pray'd  black  death  as  a  hiding-place; 
And  good  priests  pray'd  for  the  sea-bound  men 
As  never  good  priests  had  pray'd  for  years. . . . 
Then  God  spake  thunder !    And  then  the  rain ! 
The  great,  white,  beautiful,  high-born  rain ! 


[51] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


SANTA  MARIA:  TORCELLO 

And  yet  again  through  the  watery  miles 
Of  reeds  I  row'd,  till  the  desolate  isles 
Of  the  black-bead  makers  of  Venice  were  not. 
I  touch'd  where  a  single  sharp  tower  is  shot 
To  heaven,  and  torn  by  thunder  and  rent 
As  if  it  had  been  Time's  battlement. 
A  city  lies  dead,  and  this  great  gravestone 
Stands  on  its  grave  like  a  ghost  alone. 

Some  cherry-trees  grow  here,  and  here 
An  old  church,  simple  and  severe 
In  ancient  aspect,  stands  alone 
Amid  the  ruin  and  decay,  all  grown 
In  moss  and  grasses.    Old  and  quaint, 
With  antique  cuts  of  martyr'd  saint. 
The  gray  church  stands  with  stooping  knees, 
Defying  the  decay  of  seas. 

Her  pictured  hell,  with  flames  blown  high, 
In  bright  mosaics  wrought  and  set 
When  man  first  knew  the  Nubian  art; 
Her  bearded  saints  as  black  as  jet; 
Her  quaint  Madonna,  dim  with  rain 
And  touch  of  pious  lips  of  pain, 
So  touch'd  my  lonesome  soul,  that  I 
Gazed  long,  then  came  and  gazed  again, 
And  loved,  and  took  her  to  my  heart. 

Nor  monk  in  black,  nor  Capucin, 
Nor  priest  of  any  creed  was  seen. 
A  sunbrown'd  woman,  old  and  tall, 
And  still  as  any  shadow  is, 

[52] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


Stole  forth  from  out  the  mossy  wall 
With  massive  keys  to  show  me  this: 
Came  slowly  forth,  and,  following, 
Three  birds — and  all  with  drooping  wing. 

Three  mute  brown  babes  of  hers;  and 

they— 

Oh,  they  were  beautiful  as  sleep, 
Or  death,  below  the  troubled  deep! 
And  on  the  pouting  lips  of  these, 
Red  corals  of  the  silent  seas, 
Sweet  birds,  the  everlasting  seal 
Of  silence  that  the  God  has  set 
On  this  dead  island  sits  for  aye. 

I  would  forget,  yet  not  forget 
Their  helpless  eloquence.    They  creep 
Somehow  into  my  heart,  and  keep 
One  bleak,  cold  corner,  jewel  set. 
They  steal  my  better  self  away 
To  them,  as  little  birds  that  day 
Stole  fruits  from  out  the  cherry-trees. 

So  helpless  and  so  wholly  still, 
So  sad,  so  wrapt  in  mute  surprise, 
That  I  did  love,  despite  my  will. 
One  little  maid  of  ten — such  eyes, 
So  large  and  lovely,  so  divine! 
Such  pouting  lips,  such  pearly  cheek ! 
Did  lift  her  perfect  eyes  to  mine, 
Until  our  souls  did  touch  and  speak — 
Stood  by  me  all  that  perfect  day, 
Yet  not  one  sweet  word  could  she  say. 


[53] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


She  turn'd  her  melancholy  eyes 
So  constant  to  my  own,  that  I 
Forgot  the  going  clouds,  the  sky ; 
Found  fellowship,  took  bread  and  wine 
And  so  her  little  soul  and  mine 
Stood  very  near  together  there. 
And  oh,  I  found  her  very  fair! 
Yet  not  one  soft  word  could  she  say : 
What  did  she  think  of  all  that  day? 


[54] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


IN   A  GONDOLA 

'Twas  night  in  Venice.    Then  down  to  the  tide, 
Where  a  tall  and  a  shadowy  gondolier 
Lean'd  on  his  oar,  like  a  lifted  spear; — 
'Twas  night  in  Venice ;  then  side  by  side 
We  sat  in  his  boat.    Then  oar  a-trip 
On  the  black  boat's  keel,  then  dip  and  dip, 
These  boatmen   should  build  their  boats   more 

wide, 
For  we  were  together,  and  side  by  side. 

The  sea  it  was  level  as  seas  of  light, 
As  still  as  the  light  ere  a  hand  was  laid 
To  the  making  of  lands,  or  the  seas  were  made. 
'Twas  fond  as  a  bride  on  her  bridal  night 
When  a  great  love  swells  in  her  soul  like  a  sea, 
And  makes  her  but  less  than  divinity. 
JTwas  night, — The  soul  of  the  day,  I  wis. 
A  woman's  face  hiding  from  her  first  kiss. 

Ah,  how  one  wanders !    Yet  after  it  all, 

To  laugh  at  all  lovers  and  to  learn  to  scoff 

When  you  really  have  naught  of  account  to  say, 
It  is  better,  perhaps,  to  pull  leaves  by  the  way ; 
Watch  the  round  moon  rise,  or  the  red  stars  fall ; 
And  then,  too,  in  Venice !  dear,  moth-eaten  town ; 
One  palace   of  pictures;   great   frescoes   spill'd 

down 
Outside  the  walls  from  the  fullness  thereof: — 

'Twas  night  in  Venice.    On  o'er  the  tide — 
These  boats  they  are  narrow  as  they  can  be, 
These  crafts  they  are  narrow  enough,  and  we, 

[55] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


To  balance  the  boat,  sat  side  by  side — 
Out  under  the  arch  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
On  under  the  arch  of  the  star-sown  skies ; 
We  two  were  together  on  the  Adrian  Sea, — 
The  one  fair  woman  of  the  world  to  me. 


[56] 


SONGS    OF    ITALY   AND   OTHERS 


THE  CAPUCIN  OF  ROME 

Only  a  basket  for  fruits  or  bread 
And  the  bits  you  divide  with  your  dog,  which 

you 
Had  left  front  your  dinner.     The  round  year 

through 

He  never  once  smiles.    He  bends  his  head 
To  the  scorn  of  men.    He  gives  the  road 
To  the  grave  ass  groaning  beneath  his  load. 
He  is  ever  alone.    Lo!  never  a  hand 
Is  laid  in  his  hand  through  the  whole  wide  land, 
Save  when  a  man  dies,  and  he  shrives  him  home. 
And  that  is  the  Capucin  monk  of  Rome. 

He  coughs,  he  is  hump'd,  and  he  hobbles  about 

In  sandals  of  wood.    Then  a  hempen  cord 

Girdles  his  loathsome  gown.    Abhorr'd! 

Ay,  lonely,  indeed,  as  a  leper  cast  out. 

One  gown  in  three  years!  and — bah!  how  he 

smells ! 

He  slept  last  night  in  his  coffin  of  stone, 
This  monk  that  coughs,  this  skin  and  bone, 
This  living  dead  corpse   from  the  damp,  cold 

cells, — 

Go  ye  where  the  Pincian,  half-level'd  down, 
Slopes  slow  to  the  south.    These  men  in  brown 
Have  a  monkery  there,  quaint,  builded  of  stone; 
And,  living  or  dead,  'tis  the  brown  men's  home, — 
These   dead   brown   monks   who   are   living   in 

Rome! 

You  will  hear  wood  sandals  on  the  sanded 

floor; 
A  cough,  then  the  lift  of  a  latch,  then  the  door 

[57] 


SONGS   OF    ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


Groans  open,  and — horror !  Four  walls  of  stone 
All  gorgeous  with  flowers  and  frescoes  of  bone! 
There  are  bones  in  the  corners  and  bones  on  the 

wall; 

And  he  barks  like  a  dog  that  watches  his  bone, 
This  monk  in  brown  from  his  bed  of  stone — 
He  barks,  and  he  coughs,  and  that  is  all. 
At  last  he  will  cough  as  if  up  from  his  cell; 
Then  strut  with  considerable  pride  about, 
And  lead  through  his  blossoms  of  bone,  and  smell 
Their  odors;  then  talk,  as  he  points  them  out, 
Of  the  virtues  and  deeds  of  the  gents  who  wore 
The  respective  bones  but  the  year  before. 

Then   he   thaws   at   last,   ere  the  bones   are 

through, 

And  talks  right  well  as  he  turns  them  about 
And  stirs  up  a  most  unsavory  smell; 
Yea,  talks  of  his  brown  dead  brothers,  till  you 
Wish  them,  as  they  are,  no  doubt,  in — well, 

A  very  deep  well And  that  may  be  why, 

As  he  shows  you  the  door  and  bows  good-by, 
That  he  bows  so  low  for  a  franc  or  two, 
To  shrive  their  souls  and  to  get  them  out — 
These  bony  brown  men  who  have  their  home, 
Dead  or  alive,  in  their  cells  at  Rome. 

What  good  does  he  do  in  the  world?  Ah! 
well, 

Now  that  is  a  puzzler. . .  .But,  listen !    He  prays. 

His  life  is  the  fast  of  the  forty  days. 

He  seeks  the  despised ;  he  divides  the  bread 

That  he  begg'd  on  his  knees,  does  this  old  shave- 
head. 

[58] 


SONGS   OF   ITALY  AND   OTHERS 


And  then,  when  the  thief  and  the  beggar  fell ! 
And  then,  when  the  terrible  plague  came  down, 
Christ !  how  we  cried  to  these  men  in  brown 
When  other  men  fled!    Ah,  who  then  was  seen 
Stand  firm  to  the  death  like  the  Capucin? 


[59] 


SONGS    OF    THE    HEBREW 
CHILDREN 

"In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 
In  the  wild  waste  there  still  is  a  tree!' 

Though  the  many  lights  dwindle  to  one 

light, 
There  is  help  if  the  heavens  have  one." 

"Change  lays  not  her  hand  upon  truth!' 


SONGS   OF   THE    HEBREW   CHILDREN 


AT    BETHLEHEM 


With  incense  and  myrrh  and  sweet  spices, 

Frankincense  and  sacredest  oil 
In  ivory,  chased  with  devices 

Cut  quaint  and  in  serpentine  coil; 
Heads  bared,  and  held  down  to  the  bosom; 

Brows  massive  with  wisdom  and  bronzed; 
Beards  white  as  the  white  May  in  blossom; 

And  borne  to  the  breast  and  beyond, — 
Came  the  Wise  of  the  East,  bending  lowly 

On  staffs,  with  their  garments  girt  round 
With  girdles  of  hair,  to  the  Holy 

Child  Christ,  in  their  sandals.    The  sound 
Of  song  and  thanksgiving  ascended — 
Deep  night!     Yet  some  shepherds  afar 
Heard  a  wail  with  the  worshipping  blended 

And  they  then  knew  the  sign  of  the  star. 


63] 


SONGS  OF   THE   HEBREW   CHILDREN 


"LA   NOTTE" 

Is  it  night?    And  sits  night  at  your  pillow? 

Sits  darkness  about  you  like  death? 
Rolls  darkness  above  like  a  billow, 

As  drowning  men  catch  in  their  breath? 

Is  it  night,  and  deep  night  of  dark  errors, 
Of  crosses,  of  pitfalls  and  bars? 

Then  lift  up  your  face  from  your  terrors, 
For  heaven  alone  holds  the  stars ! 

Lo !  shaggy  beard  shepherds,  the  fastness — 

Lorn,  desolate  Syrian  sod; 
The  darkness,  the  midnight,  the  vastness — 

That  vast,  solemn  night  bore  a  God! 

The  night  brought  us  God;  and  the  Savior 

Lay  down  in  a  cradle  to  rest ; 
A  sweet  cherub  Babe  in  behavior, 

So  that  all  baby-world  might  be  blest. 


SONGS   OF   THE    HEBREW   CHILDREN 


IN    PALESTINE 

O  Jebus!  thou  mother  of  prophets, 

Of  soldiers  and  heroes  of  song ; 
Let  the  crescent  oppress  thee  and  scoff  its 

Blind  will,  let  the  days  do  thee  wrong; 

But  to  me  thou  art  sacred  and  splendid, 
And  to  me  thou  art  matchless  and  fair, 

As  the  tawny  sweet  twilight,  with  blended 
Sunlight  and  red  stars  in  her  hair. 

Thy  fair  ships  once  came  from  sweet  Cyprus, 
And  fair  ships  drew  in  from  Cyrene, 

With  fruits  and  rich  robes  and  sweet  spices 
For  thee  and  thine,  eminent  queen; 

And  camels  came  in  with  the  traces 
Of  white  desert  dust  in  their  hair 

As  they  kneel'd  in  the  loud  market  places, 
And  Arabs  with  lances  were  there. 

'Tis  past,  and  the  Bedouin  pillows 
His  head  where  thy  battlements  fall, 

And  thy  temples  flash  gold  to  the  billows, 
Never  more  over  turreted  wall. 

'Tis  past,  and  the  green  velvet  mosses 
Have  grown  by  the  sea,  and  now  sore 

Does  the  far  billow  mourn  for  his  losses 
Of  lifted  white  ships  to  the  shore. 

Let  the  crescent  uprise,  let  it  flash  on 
Thy  dust  in  the  garden  of  death, 

[65] 


SONGS  OF   THE   HEBREW   CHILDREN 


Thy  chastened  and  passionless  passion 
Sunk  down  to  the  sound  of  a  breath; 

Yet  you  lived  like  a  king  on  a  throne  and 
You  died  like  a  queen  of  the  south; 

For  you  lifted  the  cup  with  your  own  hand 
To  your  proud  and  your  passionate  mouth; 

Like  a  splendid  swift  serpent  surrounded 
With  fire  and  sword,  in  your  side 

You  struck  your  hot  fangs  and  confounded 
Your  foes;  you  struck  deep,  and  so — died. 


[66] 


SONGS   OF    THE    HEBREW   CHILDREN 


BEYOND  JORDAN 

And  they  came  to  Him,  mothers  of  Judah, 
Dark  eyed  and  in  splendor  of  hair, 

Bearing  down  over  shoulders  of  beauty, 
And  bosoms  half  hidden,  half  bare; 

And  they  brought  Him  their  babes  and  besought 
Him 

Half  kneeling,  with  suppliant  air, 
To  bless  the  brown  cherubs  they  brought  Him, 

With  holy  hands  laid  in  their  hair. 

Then  reaching  His  hands  He  said,  lowly, 
"Of  such  is  My  Kingdom";  and  then 

Took  the  brown  little  babes  in  the  holy 
White  hands  of  the  Savior  of  men; 

Held  them  close  to  His  heart  and  caress'd  them, 
Put  His  face  down  to  theirs  as  in  prayer, 

Put  their  hands  to  His  neck,  and  so  bless'd  them 
With  baby  hands  hid  in  His  hair. 


[67] 


SONGS  OF   THE   HEBREW   CHILDREN 


FAITH 

There  were  whimsical  turns  of  the  waters, 
There  were  rhythmical  talks  of  the  sea, — 

There  were  gather'd  the  darkest  eyed  daughters 
Of  men,  by  the  deep  Galilee. 

A  blowing  full  sail,  and  a  parting 

From  multitudes,  living  in  Him, 
A  trembling  of  lips,  and  tears  starting 

From  eyes  that  look'd  downward  and  dim. 

A  mantle  of  night  and  a  marching 
Of  storms,  and  a  sounding  of  seas, 

Of  furrows  of  foam  and  of  arching 
Black  billows;  a  bending  of  knees; 


The  rising  of  Christ — an  entreating — 
Hands  reach'd  to  the  seas  as  He  saith, 

"Have  Faith!"    And  all  seas  are  repeating, 
"Have  Faith!    Have  Faith!    Have  Faith!" 


[68] 


SONGS   OF    THE   HEBREW   CHILDREN 


HOPE 

What  song  is  well  sung  not  of  sorrow? 

What  triumph  well  won  without  pain? 
What  virtue  shall  be,  and  not  borrow 

Bright  luster  from  many  a  stain? 

What  birth  has  there  been  without  travail? 

What  battle  well  won  without  blood? 
What  good  shall  earth  see  without  evil 

Ingarner'd  as  chaff  with  the  good? 

Lo!  the  cross  set  in  rocks  by  the  Roman, 
And  nourish'd  by  blood  of  the  Lamb, 

And  water'd  by  tears  of  the  woman, 
Has  flourished,  has  spread  like  a  palm; 

Has  spread  in  the  frosts,  and  far  regions 
Of  snows  in  the  North,  and  South  sands, 

Where  never  the  tramp  of  his  legions 

Was  heard,  or  reach'd  forth  his  red  hands. 

Be  thankful;  the  price  and  the  payment, 
The  birth,  the  privations  and  scorn, 

The  cross,  and  the  parting  of  raiment, 
Are  finish'd.     The  star  brought  us  morn. 

Look  starward;  stand  far  and  unearthy, 
Free  soul'd  as  a  banner  unfurl'd. 

Be  worthy,  O  brother,  be  worthy ! 

For  a  God  was  the  price  of  the  world. 


[69] 


SONGS  OF   THE   HEBREW   CHILDREN 


CHARITY 

Her  hands  were  clasped  downward  and  doubled, 
Her  head  was  held  down  and  depress'd, 

Her  bosom,  like  white  billows  troubled, 
Fell  fitful  and  rose  in  unrest; 

Her  robes  were  all  dust  and  disorder'd 

Her  glory  of  hair,  and  her  brow, 
Her  face,  that  had  lifted  and  lorded, 

Fell  pallid  and  passionless  now. 

She  heard  not  accusers  that  brought  her 

In  mockery  hurried  to  Him, 
Nor  heeded,  nor  said,  nor  besought  her 

With  eyes  lifted  doubtful  and  dim. 


All  crush'd  and  stone-cast  in  behavior, 
She  stood  as  a  marble  would  stand, 

Then  the  Savior  bent  down,  and  the  Savior 
In  silence  wrote  on  in  the  sand. 

What  wrote  He?     How  fondly  one  lingers 
And  questions,  what  holy  command 

Fell  down  from  the  beautiful  fingers 
Of  Jesus,  like  gems  in  the  sand. 

O  better  the  Scian  uncherish'd 

Had  died  ere  a  note  or  device 
Of  battle  was  fashion'd,  than  perish'd 

This  only  line  written  by  Christ. 

He  arose  and  look'd  on  the  daughter 
Of  Eve,  like  a  delicate  flower, 

[70] 


SONGS  OF   THE   HEBREW   CHILDREN 


And  he  heard  the  revilers  that  brought  her; 
Men  stormy,  and  strong  as  a  tower; 

And  He  said,  "She  has  sinn'd ;  let  the  blameless 
Come  forward  and  cast  the  first  stone!" 

But  they,  they  fled  shamed  and  yet  shameless; 
And  she,  she  stood  white  and  alone. 

Who  now  shall  accuse  and  arraign  us? 

What  man  shall  condemn  and  disown? 
Since  Christ  has  said  only  the  stainless 

Shall  cast  at  his  fellows  a  stone. 

For  what  man  can  bare  us  his  bosom, 
And  touch  with  his  forefinger  there, 

And  say,  Tis  as  snow,  as  a  blossom? 
Beware  of  the  stainless,  beware! 

O  woman,  born  first  to  believe  us; 

Yea,  also  born  first  to  forget; 
Born  first  to  betray  and  deceive  us; 

Yet  first  to  repent  and  regret ! 

O  first  then  in  all  that  is  human, 
Yea!  first  where  the  Nazarene  trod, 

O  woman!  O  beautiful  woman! 

Be  then  first  in  the  kingdom  of  God! 


[71] 


SONGS  OF   THE   HEBREW   CHILDREN 


A   SONG   FOR   PEACE 


As  a  tale  that  is  told,  as  a  vision, 

Forgive  and  forget ;  for  I  say 
That  the  true  shall  endure  the  derision 

Of  the  false  till  the  full  of  the  day; 

II 

Ay,  forgive  as  you  would  be  forgiven; 

Ay,  forget,  lest  the  ill  you  have  done 
Be  remember'd  against  you  in  heaven 

And  all  the  days  under  the  sun. 

Ill 

For  who  shall  have  bread  without  labor? 

And  who  shall  have  rest  without  price? 
And  who  shall  hold  war  with  his  neighbor 

With  promise  of  peace  with  the  Christ? 

IV 

The  years  may  lay  hand  on  fair  heaven; 

May  place  and  displace  the  red  stars ; 
May  stain  them,  as  blood  stains  are  driven 

At  sunset  in  beautiful  bars; 

V 

May  shroud  them  in  black  till  they  fret  us 
As  clouds  with  their  showers  of  tears; 

[72] 


SONGS   OF   THE    HEBREW   CHILDREN 


May  grind  us  to  dust  and  forget  us, 
May  the  years,  O,  the  pitiless  years! 

VI 

But  the  precepts  of  Christ  are  beyond  them; 

The  truths  by  the  Nazarene  taught, 
With  the  tramp  of  the  ages  upon  them, 

They  endure  as  though  ages  were  naught ; 

VII 

The  deserts  may  drink  up  the  fountains, 
The  forests  give  place  to  the  plain, 

The  main  may  give  place  to  the  mountains, 
The  mountains  return  to  the  main; 

VIII 

Mutations  of  worlds  and  mutations 
Of  suns  may  take  place,  but  the  reign 

Of  Time,  and  the  toils  and  vexations 
Bequeath  them,  no,  never  a  stain. 

IX 

Go  forth  to  the  fields  as  one  sowing, 
Sing  songs  and  be  glad  as  you  go, 

There  are  seeds  that  take  root  without  showing, 
And  bear  some  fruit  whether  or  no. 


[73] 


SONGS  OF   THE   HEBREW   CHILDREN 


X 

And  the  sun  shall  shine  sooner  or  later, 

Though  the  midnight  breaks  ground  on  the 
morn, 

Then  appeal  you  to  Christ,  the  Creator, 
And  to  gray  bearded  Time,  His  first  born. 


[74] 


SONGS  OF   THE   HEBREW   CHILDREN 


TO   RUSSIA 

Where  wast  thou  when  I  laid  the  foundations 
of  the  earth?"— Bible. 

Who  tamed  your  lawless  Tartar  blood? 
What  David  bearded  in  her  den 
The  Russian  bear  in  ages  when 
You  strode  your  black,  unbridled  stud, 
A  skin-clad  savage  of  your  steppes? 
Why,  one  who  now  sits  low  and  weeps, 
Why  one  who  now  wails  out  to  you — 
The  Jew,  the  Jew,  the  homeless  Jew. 

Who  girt  the  thews  of  your  young  prime 
And  bound  your  fierce  divided  force? 
Why,  who  but  Moses  shaped  your  course 
United  down  the  grooves  of  time? 
Your  mightly  millions  all  today 
The  hated,  homeless  Jew  obey. 
Who  taught  all  poetry  to  you? 
The  Jew,  the  Jew,  the  hated  Jew. 

Who  taught  you  tender  Bible  tales 
Of  honey-lands,  of  milk  and  wine? 
Of  happy,  peaceful  Palestine? 
Of  Jordan's  holy  harvest  vales? 
Who  gave  the  patient  Christ?    I  say, 
Who  gave  your  Christian  creed?     Yea,  yea, 
Who  gave  your  very  God  to  you? 
Your  Jew !    Your  Jew !    Your  hated  Jew ! 


[75] 


SONGS  OF   THE   HEBREW  CHILDREN 


TO   RACHEL  IN  RUSSIA 

(To  bring  them  unto  a  good  land  and  a  large; 
unto  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey." 

O  thou,  whose  patient,  peaceful  blood 
Paints  Sharon's  roses  on  thy  cheek, 
And  down  thy  breasts  played  hide  and  seek, 
Six  thousand  years  a  stainless  flood, 
Rise  up  and  set  thy  sad  face  hence. 
Rise  up  and  come  where  Freedom  waits 
Within  these  white,  wide  ocean  gates 
To  give  thee  God's  inheritance; 
To  bind  they  wounds  in  this  despair; 
To  braid  thy  long,  strong,  loosened  hair. 

O  Rachel,  weeping  where  the  flood 
Of  icy  Volga  grinds  and  flows 
Against  his  banks  of  blood-red  snows — 
White  banks  made  red  with  children's  blood — 
Lift  up  thy  head,  be  comforted; 
For,  as  thou  didst  on  manna  feed, 
When  Russia  roamed  a  bear  in  deed, 
And  on  her  own  foul  essence  fed, 
So  shalt  thou  flourish  as  a  tree 
When  Russ  and  Cossack  shall  not  be. 

Then  come  where  yellow  harvests  swell ; 
Forsake  that  savage  land  of  snows; 
Forget  the  brutal  Russian's  blows  ; 
And  come  where  Kings  of  Conscience  dwell. 
Oh  come,  Rebecca  to  the  well ! 
The  voice  of  Rachel  shall  be  sweet! 
The  Gleaner  rest  safe  at  the  feet 

[76] 


SONGS   OF   THE   HEBREW   CHILDREN 


Of  one  who  loves  her;  and  the  spell 
Of  Peace  that  blesses  Paradise 
Shall  kiss  thy  large  and  lonely  eyes. 

Years  later  in  Easton,  Pa.,  I  wrote  and  published  "Olive 
Leaves,"  in  line  with  what  Brother  advised,  but  have  decided  to 
preserve  only  the  fragments  that  are  here  set  down,  "Songs  of 
the  Hebrew  Children." 

Jean  Ingelow,  London,  had  given  a  letter  to  a  Boston  pub- 
lisher, who  came  to  me  there  for  my  book  in  America,  as  I  was 
more  entirely  a  stranger  in  the  Atlantic  States  than  in  Europe; 
and  now  returned  I  sat  all  summer  at  a  bedside,  editing  the 
book.  At  last  the  revised  edition  for  America  was  done.  It 
came  just  in  time.  He  took  the  book,  still  damp  from  the 
binders,  said  "It  is  a  pretty  book,"  and  laid  it  down.  He  said 
some  other  things,  sacred  to  us,  and  passed.  Had  he  lived,  with 
his  better  sense  about  all  things,  I  surely  should  have  done 
better,  better  in  all  ways.  Death  had  broken  in  upon  us  cruelly, 
and  I  must  go  back  to  Oregon  now.  There  was  not  time  nor 
heart  nor  health  to  finish  the  Life  of  Christ;  besides  I  had  begun 
to  see  that  the  measure  was  monotonous.  The  greatest  poem  on 
earth  probably  is  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  I  laid  the  few 
completed  pages  on  my  Brother's  grave,  and  once  more  I  was 
in  Oregon. 

O  boy  at  peace  upon  the  Delaware! 

0  brother  mine,  that  fell  in  battle  front 
Of  life,  so  braver,  nobler  far  than  I, 
The  wanderer  who  vexed  all  gentleness, 
Receive  this  song;  I  have  but  this  to  give. 

1  may  not  rear  the  rich  man's  ghostly  stone; 
•    But  you,  through  all  my  follies  loving  still 

And  trusting  me     .     .     .     nay,  I  shall  not  forget. 

A  failing  hand  in  mine,  and  fading  eyes 

That  look'd  in  mine  as  from  another  land, 

You  said:     "Some  gentler  things;  a  song  for  Peace. 

'Mid  all  your  songs  for  men  one  song  for  God." 

And  then  the  dark-brow'd  mother,  Death,  bent  down 

Her  face  to  yours,  and  you  were  born  to  Him. 


[77] 


THE  ULTIMATE   WEST 

My  Mountains  still  are  free! 
They  hurl  oppression  back; 
They  keep  the  boon  of  liberty. 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


THE    GOLD    THAT    GREW    BY    SHASTA 
TOWN 

From  Shasta  town  to  Redding  town 
The  ground  is  torn  by  miners  dead; 
The  manzanita,  rank  and  red, 
Drops  dusty  berries  up  and  down 
Their  grass-grown  trails.     Their  silent  mines 
Are  wrapped  in  chaparral  and  vines; 
Yet  one  gray  miner  still  sits  down 
Twixt  Redding  and  sweet  Shasta  town. 

The  quail  pipes  pleasantly.     The  hare 
Leaps  careless  o'er  the  golden  oat 
That  grows  below  the  water  moat; 
The  lizard  basks  in  sunlight  there. 
The  brown  hawk  swims  the  perfumed  air 
Unfrightened  through  the  livelong  day; 
And  now  and  then  a  curious  bear 
Comes  shuffling  down  the  ditch  by  night, 
And  leaves  some  wide,  long  tracks  in  clay 
So  human-like,  so  stealthy  light, 
Where  one  lone  cabin  still  stoops  down 
'Twixt  Redding  and  sweet  Shasta  town. 

That  great  graveyard  of  hopes!  of  men 
Who  sought  for  hidden  veins  of  gold; 
Of  young  men  suddenly  grown  old — 
Of  old  men  dead,  despairing  when 
The  gold  was  just  within  their  hold! 
That  storied  land,  whereon  the  light 
Of  other  days  gleams  faintly  still; 
Somelike  the  halo  of  a  hill 
That    lifts    above    the  falling  night; 
That  warm,  red,  rich  and  human  land, 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


That  flesh-red  soil,  that  warm  red  sand, 
Where  one  gray  miner  still  sits  down! 
'Twixt  Redding  and  sweet  Shasta  town ! 

"I  know  the  vein  is  here !"  he  said ; 
For  twenty  years,  for  thirty  years ! 
While  far  away  fell  tears  on  tears 
From  wife  and  babe  who  mourned  him  dead. 
No  gold !     No  gold !     And  he  grew  old 
And  crept  to  toil  with  bended  head 
Amid  a  graveyard  of  his  dead, 
Still  seeking  for  that  vein  of  gold. 

Then  lo,  came  laughing  down  the  years 
A  sweet  grandchild!     Between  his  tears 
He  laughed.     He  set  her  by  the  door 
The  while  he  toiled;  his  day's  toil  o'er 
He  held  her  chubby  cheeks  between 
His  hard  palms,  laughed;  and  laughing  cried. 
You  should  have  seen,  have  heard  and  seen 
His  boyish  joy,  his  stout  old  pride, 
When  toil  was  done  and  he  sat  down 
At  night,  below  sweet  Shasta  town ! 

At  last  his  strength  was  gone.     "No  more ! 
I  mine  no  more.    I  plant  me  now 
A  vine  and  fig-tree ;  worn  and  old, 
I  seek  no  more  my  vein  of  gold. 
But,  oh,  I  sigh  to  give  it  o'er; 
These  thirty  years  of  toil !  somehow 
It  seems  so  hard ;  but  now,  no  more." 

And  so  the  old  man  set  him  down 
To  plant,  by  pleasant  Shasta  town. 
And  it  was  pleasant;  piped  the  quail 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


The  full  year  through.    The  chipmunk  stole, 
His  whiskered  nose  and  tossy  tail 
Full  buried  in  the  sugar-bowl. 

And  purple  grapes  and  grapes  of  gold 
Swung  sweet  as  milk.     While  orange-trees 
Grew  brown  with  laden  honey-bees. 
Oh !  it  was  pleasant  up  and  down 
That  vine-set  hill  of  Shasta  town. 


And  then  that  cloud-burst  came!    Ah,  me! 
That  torn  ditch  there!     The  mellow  land 
Rolled  seaward  like  a  rope  of  sand, 
Nor  left  one  leafy  vine  or  tree 
Of  all  that  Eden  nestling  down 
Below  that  moat  by  Shasta  town ! 


The  old  man  sat  his  cabin's  sill, 
His  gray  head  bowed  to  hands  and  knee; 
The  child  went  forth,  sang  pleasantly, 
Where  burst  the  ditch  the  day  before, 
And  picked  some  pebbles  from  the  hill. 
The  old  man  moaned,  moaned  o'er  and  o'er: 
.  "My  babe  is  dowerless,  and  I 
Must  fold  my  helpless  hands  and  die! 
Ah,  me!     What  curse  conies  ever  down 
On  me  and  mine  at  Shasta  town." 

"Good  Grandpa,  see!"  the  glad  child  said, 
And  so  leaned  softly  to  his  side, — 
Laid  her  gold  head  to  his  gray  head, 
And  merry  voiced  and  cheery  cried, 
"Good  Grandpa,  do  not  weep,  but  see ! 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


I've  found  a  peck  of  orange  seeds! 
I  searched  the  hill  for  vine  or  tree; 
Not  one! — not  even  oats  or  weeds; 
But,  oh !  such  heaps  of  orange  seeds ! 

"Come,  good  Grandpa!     Now,  once  you  said 
That  God  is  good.     So  this  may  teach 
That  we  must  plant  each  seed,  and  each 
May  grow  to  be  an  orange  tree. 
Now,  good  Grandpa,  please  raise  your  head, 
And  please  come  plant  the  seeds  with  me." 
And  prattling  thus,  or  like  to  this, 
The  child  thrust  her  full  hands  in  his. 

He  sprang,  sprang  upright  as  of  old. 
'  'Tis  gold !  'tis  gold !  my  hidden  vein ! 
'Tis  gold  for  you,  sweet  babe,  'tis  gold ! 
Yea,  God  is  good;  we  plant  again!" 
So  one  old  miner  still  sits  down 
By  pleasant,  sunlit  Shasta  town. 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


THE    SIOUX    CHIEF'S    DAUGHTER 

Two  gray  hawks  ride  the  rising  blast ; 
Dark  cloven  clouds  drive  to  and  fro 
By  peaks  pre-eminent  in  snow; 
A  sounding  river  rushes  past, 
So  wild,  so  vortex-like,  and  vast. 

A  lone  lodge  tops  the  windy  hill ; 
A  tawny  maiden,  mute  and  still. 
Stands  waiting  at  the  river's  brink,  * 
As  eager,  fond  as  you  can  think. 
A  mighty  chief  is  at  her  feet ; 
She  does  not  heed  him  wooing  so — 
She  hears  the  dark,  wild  waters  flow; 
She  waits  her  lover,  tall  and  fleet, 
From  out  far  beaming  hills  of  snow. 

He  comes !     The  grim  chief  springs  in  air — 
His  brawny  arm,  his  blade  is  bare. 

She  turns ;  she  lifts  her  round,  brown  hand ; 
She  looks  him  fairly  in  the  face; 
She  moves  her  foot  a  little  pace 
And  says,  with  calmness  and  command, 
"There's  blood  enough  in  this  lorn  land. 

"But  see!  a  test  of  strength  and  skill, 
Of  courage  and  fierce  fortitude; 
To  breast  and  wrestle  with  the  rude 
And  storm-born  waters,  now  I  will 
Bestow  you  both. 


[85] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


"...     Stand  either  side! 
And  you,  my  burly  chief,  I  know 
Would  choose  my  right.    Now  peer  you  low 
Across  the  waters  wild  and  wide. 
See!  leaning  so  this  morn  I  spied 
Red  berries  dip  yon  farther  side. 

"See,  dipping,  dripping  in  the  stream! 
Twin  boughs  of  autumn  berries  gleam! 

"Now  this,  brave  men,  shall  be  the  test : 
Plunge  in  the  stream,  bear  knife  in  teeth 
To  cut  yon  bough  for  bridal  wreath. 
Plunge  in!  and  he  who  bears  him  best, 
And  brings  yon  ruddy  fruit  to  land 
The  first,  shall  have  both  heart  and  hand." 

Two  tawny  men,  tall,  brown  and  thewed 
Like  antique  bronzes  rarely  seen, 
Shot  up  like  flame. 

She  stood  between 
Like  fixed,  impassive  fortitude. 
Then  one  threw  robes  with  sullen  air, 
And  wound  red  fox-tails  in  his  hair; 
But  one  with  face  of  proud  delight 
Entwined  a  wing  of  snowy  white. 

She  stood  between.     She  sudden  gave 
The  sign  and  each  impatient  brave 
Shot  sudden  in  the  sounding  wave ; 
The  startled  waters  gurgled  round; 
Their  stubborn  strokes  kept  sullen  sound. 


[86] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


Oh,  then  uprose  the  love  that  slept! 
Oh,  then  her  heart  beat  loud  and  strong! 
Oh,  then  the  proud  love  pent  up  long 
Broke  forth  in  wail  upon  the  air! 
And  leaning  there  she  sobbed  and  wept, 
With  dark  face  mantled  in  her  hair. 

She  sudden  lifts  her  leaning  brow. 
He  nears  the  shore,  her  love!  and  now 
The  foam  flies  spouting  from  the  face 
That  laughing  lifts  from  out  the  race. 

The  race  is  won,  the  work  is  done! 
She  sees  the  kingly  crest  of  snow; 
She  knows  her  tall,  brown  Idaho. 
She  cries  aloud,  she  laughing  cries, 
And  tears  are  streaming  from  her  eyes : 
"O  splendid,  kingly  Idaho! 
I  kiss  thy  lifted  crest  of  snow. 

"My  tall  and  tawny  king,  come  back! 
Come  swift,  O  sweet!  why  falter  so? 
Come!     Come!     What  thing  has  crossed  your 

track? 

I  kneel  to  all  the  gods  I  know.     .     .     . 
Great  Spirit,  what  is  this  I  dread? 
Why,  there  is  blood!  the  wave  is  red! 
That  wrinkled  chief,  outstripped  in  race, 
Dives  down,  and,  hiding  from  my  face, 
Strikes  underneath. 

"...     He  rises  now! 
Now  plucks  my  hero's  berry  bough, 
And  lifts  aloft  his  red  fox  head, 

[87] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


And  signals  he  has  won  for  me.     .     .     . 
Hist,  softly!     Let  him  come  and  see. 

"Oh,  come!  my  white-crowned  hero,  come! 
Oh,  come!  and  I  will  be  your  bride, 
Despite  yon  chieftain's  craft  and  might. 
Come  back  to  me !  my  lips  are  dumb, 
My  hands  are  helpless  with  despair; 
The  hair  you  kissed,  my  long,  strong  hair, 
Is  reaching  to  the  ruddy  tide, 
That  you  may  clutch  it  when  you  come. 

, 

"How  slow  he  buffets  back  the  wave! 
O  God,  he  sinks!  O  Heaven!  save 
My  brave,  brave  king !     He  rises  !  see ! 
Hold  fast,  my  hero!     Strike  for  me. 
Strike    straight    this    way!     Strike    firm    and 

strong ! 

Hold  fast  your  strength.     It  is  not  long — 
O  God,  he  sinks!     He  sinks!     Is  gone! 

"And  did  I  dream  and  do  I  wake? 
Or  did  I  wake  and  now  but  dream? 
And  what  is  this  crawls  from  the  stream? 
Oh,  here  is  some  mad,  mad  mistake! 
What,  you!  the  red  fox  at  my  feet? 
You  first,  and  failing  from  the  race? 
What!     You  have  brought  me  berries  red? 
What !     You  have  brought  your  bride  a  wreath  ? 
You  sly  red  fox  with  wrinkled  face — 
That  blade  has  blood  between  your  teeth! 

"Lie  low!  lie  low!  while  I  lean  o'er 
And  clutch  your  red  blade  to  the  shore.     .     .     . 
Ha!  ha!    Take  that!  take  that  and  that! 
[88] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


Ha!  ha!     So,  through  your  coward  throat 
The    full    day    shines!     .     .     .    Two    fox-tails 

float 
Far  down,  and  I  but  mock  thereat. 

"But  what  is  this?    What  snowy  crest 
Climbs  out  the  willows  of  the  west, 
All  dripping  from  his  streaming  hair? 
'Tis  he!     My  hero  brave  and  fair! 
His  face  is  lifting  to  my  face, 
And  who  shall  now  dispute  the  race? 

"The  gray  hawks  pass,  O  love!  and  doves 
O'er  yonder  lodge  shall  coo  their  loves. 
My  hands  shall  heal  your  wounded  breast, 
And  in  yon  tall  lodge  two  shall  rest." 


[89 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


A   SHASTA   TALE   OF   LOVE 

'And  God  saw  the  light  that  it  was  good!' 

I  heard  a  tale  long,  long  ago, 
Where  I  had  gone  apart  to  pray 
By  Shasta's  pyramid  of  snow, 
That  touches  me  unto  this  day. 
I  know  the  fashion  is  to  say 
An  Arab  tale,  an  Orient  lay; 
But  when  the  grocer  rings  my  gold 
On  counter,  flung  from  greasy  hold, 
He  cares  not  from  Acadian  vale 
It  conies,  or  savage  mountain  chine; — 
But  this  the  Shastan  tale: 

Once  in  the  olden,  golden  days, 
When  men  and  beasts  companioned,  when 
All  went  in  peace  about  their  ways 
Nor  God  had  hid  His  face  from  men 
Because  man  slew  his  brother  beast 
To  make  his  most  unholy  feast, 
A  gray  coyote,  monkish  cowled, 
Upraised  his  face  and  wailed  and  howled 
The  while  he  made  his  patient  round ; 
For  lo !  the  red  men  all  lay  dead, 
Stark,  frozen  on  the  ground. 

The  very  dogs  had  fled  the  storm, 
A  mother  with  her  long,  meshed  hair 
Bound  tight  about  her  baby's  form, 
Lay  frozen,  all  her  body  bare. 
Her  last  shred  held  her  babe  in  place ; 
Her  last  breath  warmed  her  baby's  face. 
Then,  as  the  good  monk  brushed  the  snow 

[90] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


Aside  from  mother  loving  so, 
He  heard  God  from  the  mount  above 
Speak  through  the  clouds  and  loving  say : 
"Yea,  all  is  dead  but  Love." 

"Now  take  up  Love  and  cherish  her, 
And  seek  the  white  man  with  all  speed, 
And  keep  Love  warm  within  thy  fur; 
For  oh,  he  needeth  love  indeed. 
Take  all  and  give  him  freely,  all 
Of  love  you  find,  or  great  or  small; 
For  he  is  very  poor  in  this, 
So  poor  he  scarce  knows  what  love  is." 
The  gray  monk  raised  Love  in  his  paws 
And  sped,  a  ghostly  streak  of  gray, 
To  where  the  white  man  was. 

But  man  uprose,  enraged  to  see 
A  gaunt  wolf  track  his  new-hewn  town. 
He  called  his  dogs,  and  angrily 
He  brought  his  flashing  rifle  down. 
Then  God  said:    "On  his  hearthstone  lay 
The  seed  of  Love,  and  come  away; 
The  seed  of  Love,  'tis  needed  so, 
And  pray  that  it  may  grow  and  grow." 
And  so  the  gray  monk  crept  at  night 
And  laid  Love  down,  as  God  had  said, 
A  faint  and  feeble  light. 

So  faint,  indeed,  the  cold  hearthstone 
It  seemed  would  chill  starved  Love  to  death; 
And  so  the  monk  gave  all  his  own 
And  crouched  and  fanned  it  with  his  breath 
Until  a  red  cock  crowed  for  day. 
Then  God  said:     "Rise  up,  come  away." 

[91] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


The  beast  obeyed,  but  yet  looked  back 
All  morn  along  his  lonely  track; 
For  he  had  left  his  all  in  all, 
His  own  Love,  for  that  famished  Love 
Seemed  so  exceeding  small. 

And  God  said :    "Look  not  back  again." 
But  ever,  where  a  campfire  burned, 
And  he  beheld  strong,  burly  men 
At  meat,  he  sat  him  down  and  turned 
His  face  to  wail  and  wail  and  mourn 
The  Love  laid  on  that  cold  hearthstone. 
Then  God  was  angered,  and  God  said: 
"Be  thou  a  beggar  then;  thy  head 
Hath  been  a  fool,  but  thy  swift  feet, 
Because  they  bore  sweet  Love,  shall  be 
The  fleetest  of  all  fleet." 

And  ever  still  about  the  camp, 
By  chine  or  plain,  in  heat  or  hail, 
A  homeless,  hungry,  hounded  tramp, 
The  gaunt  coyote  keeps  his  wail. 
And  ever  as  he  wails  he  turns 
His  head,  looks  back  and  yearns  and  yearns 
For  lost  Love,  laid  that  wintry  day 
To  warm  a  hearthstone  far  away. 
Poor  loveless,  homeless  beast,  I  keep 
Your  lost  Love  warm  for  you,  and,  too, 
A  canon  cool  and  deep. 


[92] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


LOVE  IN  THE  SIERRAS 

"No,  not  so  lonely  now — I  love 
A  forest  maiden;  she  is  mine 
And  on  Sierras'  slopes  of  pine, 
The  vines  below,  the  snows  above, 
A  solitary  lodge  is  set 
Within  a  fringe  of  water'd  firs ; 
And  there  my  wigwam  fires  burn, 
Fed  by  a  round  brown  patient  hand, 
That  small  brown  faithful  hand  of  hers 
That  never  rests  till  my  return. 
The  yellow  smoke  is  rising  yet ; 
Tiptoe,  and  see  it  where  you  stand 
Lift  like  a  column  from  the  land. 

"There  are  no  sea-gems  in  her  hair, 
No  jewels  fret  her  dimpled  hands, 
And  half  her  bronzen  limbs  are  bare. 
Her  round  brown  arms  have  golden  bands, 
Broad,  rich,  and  by  her  cunning  hands 
Cut  from  the  yellow  virgin  ore, 
And  she  does  not  desire  more. 
I  wear  the  beaded  wampum  belt 
That  she  has  wove — the  sable  pelt 
That  she  has  fringed  red  threads  around; 
And  in  the  morn,  when  men  are  not, 
I  wake  the  valley  with  the  shot 
That  brings  the  brown  deer  to  the  ground. 
And  she  beside  the  lodge  at  noon 
Sings  with  the  wind,  while  baby  swings 
In  sea-shell  cradle  by  the  bough- — 
Sings  low,  so  like  the  clover  sings 
With  swarm  of  bees;  I  hear  her  now, 
I  see  her  sad  face  through  the  moon.     . 

[93] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


Such  songs! — would  earth  had  more  of  such! 

She  has  not  much  to  say,  and  she 

Lifts  never  voice  to  question  me 

In  aught  I  do     ...     and  that  is  much. 

I  love  her  for  her  patient  trust, 

And  my  love's  forty-fold  return — 

A  value  I  have  not  to  learn 

As  you    ...    at  least,  as  many  must    .     .     . 

.     .     .     "She  is  not  over  tall  or  fair; 
Her  breasts  are  curtained  by  her  hair, 
And  sometimes,  through  the  silken  fringe, 
I  see  her  bosom's  wealth,  like  wine 
Burst  through  in  luscious  ruddy  tinge — 
And  all  its  wealth  and  worth  are  mine. 
I  know  not  that  one  drop  of  blood 
Of  prince  or  chief  is  in  her  veins: 
I  simply  say  that  she  is  good, 
And  loves  me  with  pure  womanhood. 
.     .     .    When  that  is  said,  why,  what  remains  ?" 


[941 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


OLD    GIB    AT    CASTLE    ROCKS* 

His  eyes  are  dim,  he  gropes  his  way, 
His  step  is  doubtful,  slow, 
And  now  men  pass  him  by  today: 
But  forty  years  ago — 
Why  forty  years  ago  I  say 
Old  Gib  was  good  to  know. 

For,  forty  years  ago  today, 
Where  cars  glide  to  and  fro, 
The  Modoc  held  the  world  at  bay, 
And  blood  was  on  the  snow. 
Ay,  forty  years  ago  I  say 
Old  Gib  was  good  to  know. 

Full  forty  years  ago  today 
This  valley  lay  in  flame; 
Up  yonder  pass  and  far  away, 
Red  ruin  swept  the  same : 
Two  women,  with  their  babes  at  play, 
Were  butchered  in  black  shame. 

'Twas  then  with  gun  and  flashing  eye 
Old  Gib  loomed  like  a  pine; 
"Now  will  you  fight,  or  will  you  fly? 
I'll  take  a  fight  in  mine. 
Come  let  us  fight ;  come  let  us  die !" 
There  came  just  twenty-nine. 

Just  twenty-nine  who  dared  to  die, 
And,  too,  a  motley  crew 
Of  half-tamed  red  men;  would  they  fly, 
Or  would  they  fight  him  too  ? 

[95] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


No  time  to  question  or  reply, 
That  was  a  time  to  do. 

Up,  up,  straight  up  where  thunders  grow 
And  growl  in  Castle  Rocks, 
Straight  up  till  Shasta  gleamed  in  snow, 
And  shot  red  battle  shocks; 
Till  clouds  lay  shepherded  below, 
A  thousand  ghostly  flocks. 

Yet  up  and  up  Old  Gibson  led, 
No  looking  backward  then ; 
His  bare  feet  bled;  the  rocks  were  red 
From  torn,  bare-footed  men. 
Yet  up,  up,  up,  till  well  nigh  dead — 
The  Modoc  in  his  den! 

Then  cried  the  red  chief  from  his  height, 
"Now,  white  man,  what  would  you? 
Behold  my  hundreds  for  the  fight, 
But  yours  so  faint  and  few; 
We  are  as  rain,  as  hail  at  night 
But  you,  you  are  as  dew. 

"White  man,  go  back;  I  beg  go  back, 
I  will  not  fight  so  few; 
Yet  if  I  hear  one  rifle  crack, 
Be  that  the  doom  of  you ! 
Back!  down,  I  say,  back  down  your  track, 
Back,  down!    What  else  to  do?" 

"What  else  to  do?    Avenge  or  die! 
Brave  men  have  died  before; 
And  you  shall  fight,  or  you  shall  fly. 
You  find  no  women  more, 

[96] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


No  babes  to  butcher  now ;  for  I 
Shall  storm  your  Castle's  door!" 

Then  bang!  whiz  bang!  whiz  bang  and  ping! 
Six  thousand  feet  below, 
Sweet  Sacramento  ceased  to  sing, 
But  wept  and  wept,  for  oh ! 
These  arrows  sting  as  adders  sting, 
And  they  kept  stinging  so. 

Then  one  man  cried:    "Brave  men  have  died, 
And  we  can  die  as  they ; 
But  ah !  my  babe,  my  one  year's  bride ! 
And  they  so  far  away. 
Brave  Captain  lead  us  back — aside, 
Must  all  here  die  today?" 

His  face,  his  hands,  his  body  bled : 
Yea,  no  man  there  that  day — 
No  white  man  there  but  turned  to  red, 
In  that  fierce  fatal  fray ; 
But  Gib  with  set  teeth  only  said: 
"No ;  we  came  here  to  stay !" 

They  stayed  and  stayed,  and  Modocs  stayed, 
But  when  the  night  came  on, 
No  white  man  there  was  now  afraid, 
The  last  Modoc  had  gone; 
His  ghost  in  Castle  Rocks  was  laid 
Till  everlasting  dawn. 

*  Parties  with  Indian  depredation  claims  against  the  Govern- 
ment desiring  exact  information  touching  the  first  trouble  with 
the  Modocs,  now  nearly  forty  years  ago,  the  venerable  leader  of 
the  volunteers  in  the  first  battle  made  out,  with  his  own  hand, 
the  following  quaint  account  of  it,  swore  to  it  before  a  Notary, 

[97] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


and  sent  it  to  Washington.  The  italics,  capitals,  and  all  are  as 
he  set  them  down  in  his  crude  but  truthful  way. — Frank  Leslie's 
Magazine,  1893. 

I  Reuben  P.  Gibson  Was  Born  in  Lowell  Mass  in  1826  of 
American  Parents,  shiped  on  board  a  whaler  of  New  Bedford  in 
1846,  Rounded  Cape  Horn,  spent  several  years  on  the  Pacific 
Ocean,  and  in  1846  landed  in  California.  Came  to  the  Mines  in 
Shasta  County  California,  and  have  lived  here  in  Shasta  County 
more  than  40  years,  most  of  which  time  I  have  been  and  am 
now  a  Magistrate.  I  have  had  much  to  do  with  Indians,  and 
in  1855  they  became  Very  Restless,  and  some  of  them  took  to 
the  Castle  Rocks,  Called  Castle  del  Diablo,  at  that  time  by  the 
Mexicans,  and  they — the  Hostiles  began  to  destroy  our  Property, 
and  Kill  White  people.  Troops  of  the  Regular  Army  tried  to 
engage  them,  but  found  them  inaccessible.  I  then  raised  a 
Company  of  Twenty-Nine  White  men  and  thirty  Indian 
(friendly)  Scouts  and  after  hard  Perilous  Marches  by  Night,  We 
engaged  and  destroyed  the  Hostiles,  having  taken  Many  Scalps. 
This  battle  was  Fought  in  the  Castle  Rocks  in  this  Shasta  County 
and  was  in  June  1855.  The  hostiles  were  Modocs  and  Other 
Renegades  and  this  was  the  first  Battle  in  a  war  that  Spread  all 
over  the  Coast  I  had  Some  Indians  hurt,  and  one  man  mortally 
wounded,  James  Lane  by  name.  Some  Others  were  more  or  less 
hurt  with  Arrows.  Joaquin  Miller  Received  an  Arrow  in  the 
face  and  Neck  at  my  Side  and  we  thought  would  die  but  at  last 
got  Well.  He  and  Mountain  Joe  had  a  Post  at  Soda  Springs 
below  Castle  Rocks,  and  their  property  had  been  destroyed  and 
made  untenable.  In  all  My  Experience  I  know  of  nothing  in 
Indian  warfare  so  effectual  for  good  as  this  Campaign.  The 
indians  had  Possessions  of  the  lines  of  travel  connecting  Middle 
and  Northern  California  and  it  Was  impossible  for  the  Mails  to 
get  through  until  the  Hostiles  were  destroyed. 

(Signed)  REUBEN  P  GIBSON 

Subscribed  and  sworn  to  before  me  this  i7th  day  of  November, 
1892,  and  I  hereby  certify  that  I  am  well  acquainted  with  said 
affiant  and  know  him  to  be  a  person  of  veracity  and  entitled  to 
credit.  He  is  a  Justice  of  the  Peace  in  this  Shasta  County. 

[SEAL]  F.  P.  PRIMM, 

Notary  Public  in  and  for  Shasta  County,  Cal. 

Let  me  here  introduce  a  line  of  facts  stranger  than  anything 
imagined  in  all  these  pages.  I  had  not  intended  to  insert  these 
verses  and  had  delivered  to  my  publishers  the  completed  collec- 
tion without  them.  Against  my  objection  that  the  lines  were  not 


[98 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


only  too  personal,  but  unequal,  it  was  urged  that  they  would  be 
missed  by  my  readers;  besides  their  preservation  was  due  to  my 
old  commander,  and  as  this  was  the  first  of  my  three  terrible 
Indian  campaigns,  and  I  had  served  only  as  private  instead  of 
leader,  I  could  hardly  be  held  guilty  of  egotism.  Deference  to 
the  dead  made  me  consent  to  try  and  find  the  lines  at  once  in 
some  library.  On  my  way  I  met  a  man  whom  I  knew  but 
slightly  as  U.  S.  Marshal  under  President  Hayes.  My  weary 
eyes  were  unequal  to  the  task  before  me,  and  I  asked  him  to  go 
with  me.  This  he  did,  and  now  let  his  letter  tell  the  rest. 

"OAKLAND,  Dec.  20,  1896. 

"Joaquin,  my  dear  fellow,  I  enclose  herewith  the  copies  you 
expressed  a  wish  for.  I  think  they  are  exact.  I  was  especially 
careful  in  making  the  affidavit  of  Old  Gib;  so  where  he  differs 
with  Webster  orthographically,  I  follow  Gib. 

"Now  my  boy,  I've  a  little  story.  I'll  be  considerate  and  make 
it  brief.  In  the  early  part  of  the  summer  of  1855,  I  was  one  of 
a  company  of  about  twenty  that  left  Auburn,  Placer  Co.,  on  a 
prospecting  expedition,  intending,  unless  we  found  satisfactory 
prospects  nearer,  to  go  to  the  Trinity.  We  crossed  the  Yuba 
and  Feather,  camping  a  few  days  on  Nelson  Creek,  then  traveling 
in  a  northwesterly  direction,  we  reached  the  headwaters  of  the 
Sacramento,  where  we  found  a  party  of  white  men  and  Indians 
who,  a  day  or  two  previous  to  our  meeting  them,  had  had  a 
desperate  fight  with  Indians.  They  told  us  they  had  lost  several 
men,  killed  and  wounded,  but  had  nearly  exterminated  the  In- 
dians. I  saw  one  of  their  men,  a  boy  in  appearance,  who  had, 
as  I  understood,  received  two  arrow  wounds  in  the  face  and 
neck.  He  was  in  great  pain,  and  no  one  believed  he  could 
recover. 

"Twelve  years  later  I,  then  Sheriff  of  Placer  Co.,  had  occa- 
sion to  go  to  Shasta  on  official  business.  W.  E.  Hopping  was 
then  Sheriff  of  Shasta  Co.  In  the  course  of  conversation  with 
him,  I  spoke  of  the  incident  narrated  above.  He  interrupted  me, 
and  said:  'The  Captain  of  the  volunteers  at  the  battle  is  in 
town.'  He  found  him,  and  introduced  me  to  the  man  who  was 
doubtless  Old  Gib,  though  his  name  has  gone  from  my  memory. 
I  asked  about  the  young  fellow  who  was  so  desperately  wounded. 
'Oh,  he  pulled  through  all  right,  the  game  little  cuss,'  said  he, 
'he's  up  in  Oregon,  I  believe.'  I  don't  think  he  mentioned  his 
name,  but  in  copying  the  affidavit  of  Old  Gib,  it  dawned  upon 
me  who  that  'game  little  cuss'  was.  Yours, 

A.  W.  POOLE." 

[99] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


THE   LARGER  COLLEGE 
ON  LAYING  THE  COLLEGE  CORNER-STONE 

Where  San  Diego  seas  are  warm, 
Where  winter  winds  from  warm  Cathay 
Sing  sibilant,  where  blossoms  swarm 
With  Hybla's  bees,  we  come  to  lay 
This  tribute  of  the  truest,  best, 
The  warmest  daughter  of  the  West. 

Here  Progress  plants  her  corner-stone 
Against  this  warm,  still,  Cortez  wave. 
In  ashes  of  the  Aztec's  throne, 
In  tummals  of  the  Toltec's  grave, 
We  plant  this  stone,  and  from  the  sod 
Pick  painted  fragments  of  his  god. 

Here  Progress  lifts  her  torch  to  teach 
God's  pathway  through  the  pass  of  care; 
Her  altar-stone  Balboa's  Beach, 
Her  incense  warm,  sweet,  perfumed  air; 
Such  incense!  where  white  strophes  reach 
And  lap  and  lave  Balboa's  Beach! 

We  plant  this  stone  as  some  small  seed 
Is  sown  at  springtime,  warm  with  earth ; 
We  sow  this  seed  as  some  good  deed 
Is  sown,  to  grow  until  its  worth 
Shall  grow,  through  rugged  steeps  of  time, 
To  touch  the  utmost  star  sublime. 

We  lift  this  lighthouse  by  the  sea, 
The  westmost  sea,  the  westmost  shore, 
To  guide  man's  ship  of  destiny 

[100] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


When  Scylla  and  Charybdis  roar; 

To  teach  him  strength,  to  proudly  teach 

God's  grandeur,  where  His  white  palms  reach ; 

To  teach  not  Sybil  books  alone; 
Man's  books  are  but  a  climbing  stair, 
Lain  step  by  step,  like  stairs  of  stone; 
The  stairway  here,  the  temple  there — 
Man's  lampad  honor,  and  his  trust, 
The  God  who  called  him  from  the  dust. 

Man's  books  are  but  man's  alphabet, 
Beyond  and  on  his  lessons  lie — 
The  lessons  of  the  violet, 
The  large  gold  letters  of  the  sky; 
The  love  of  beauty,  blossomed   soil, 
The  large  content,  the  tranquil  toil: 

The  toil  that  nature  ever  taught, 
The  patient  toil,  the  constant  stir, 
The  toil  of  seas  where  shores  are  wrought, 
The  toil  of  Christ,  the  carpenter; 
The  toil  of  God  incessantly 
By  palm-set  land  or  frozen  sea. 

Behold  this  sea,  that  sapphire  sky! 
Where  nature  does  so  much  for  man, 
Shall  man  not  set  his  standard  high, 
And  hold  some  higher,  holier  plan? 
Some  loftier  plan  than  ever  planned 
By  outworn  book  of  outworn  land? 

Where  God  has  done  so  much  for  man! 
Shall  man  for  God  do  aught  at  all? 

[10!] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


The  soul  that  feeds  on  books  alone — 
I  count  that  soul  exceeding  small 
That  lives  alone  by  book  and  creed,- 
A  soul  that  has  not  learned  to  read. 


[102] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


TO   THE   PIONEERS 

READ  SAN  FRANCISCO,   1894 

How  swift  this  sand,  gold-laden,  runs! 
How  slow  these  feet,  once  swift  and  firm ! 
Ye  came  as  romping,  rosy  sons, 
Come  jocund  up  at  College  term ; 
Ye  came  so  jolly,  stormy,  strong, 
Ye  drown'd  the  roll-call  with  your  song. 
But  now  ye  lean  a  list'ning  ear 
And — "Adsum!  Adsum!  I  am  here!" 

My  brave  world-builders  of  a  world 
That  tops  the  keystone,  star  of  States, 
All  hail!     Your  battle  flags  are  furled 
In  fruitful  peace.     The  golden  gates 
Are  won.    The  jasper  walls  be  yours. 
Your  sun  sinks  down  yon  soundless  shores. 
Night  falls.     But  lo!  your  lifted  eyes 
Greet  gold  outcroppings  in  the  skies. 

Companioned  with  Sierra's  peaks 
Our  storm-born  eagle  shrieks  his  scorn 
Of  doubt  or  death,  and  upward  seeks 
Through  unseen  worlds  the  coming  morn. 
Or  storm,  or  calm,  or  near,  or  far, 
His   eye   fixed   on  the   morning   star, 
He  knows,  as  God  knows,  there  is  dawn; 
And  so  keeps  on,  and  on,  and  on ! 

So  ye,  brave  men  of  bravest  days, 
Fought  on  and  on  with  battered  shield, 
Up  bastion,  rampart,  till  the  rays 
Of  full  morn  met  ye  on  the  field. 

[103] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


Ye  knew  not  doubt;  ye  only  knew 

To  do  and  dare,  and  dare  and  do ! 

Ye  knew  that  time,  that  God's  first-born, 

Would  turn  the  darkest  night  to  morn. 

Ye  gave  your  glorious  years  of  youth 
And  lived  as  heroes  live — and  die. 
Ye  loved  the  truth,  ye  lived  the  truth; 
Ye  knew  that  cowards  only  lie. 
Then  heed  not  now  one  serpent's  hiss, 
Or  trait'rous,  trading,  Judas  kiss. 
Let  slander  wallow  in  his  slime; 
Still  leave  the  truth  to  God  and  time. 

Worn  victors,  few  and  true,  such  clouds 
As  track  God's  trailing  garment's  hem 
Where  Shasta  keeps  shall  be  your  shrouds, 
And  ye  shall  pass  the  stars  in  them. 
Your  tombs  shall  be  while  time  endures, 
Such  hearts  as  only  truth  secures; 
Your  everlasting  monuments 
Sierra's  snow-topt  battle  tents. 


[104] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


"49"* 

We  have  worked  our  claims, 
We  have  spent  our  gold, 
Our  barks  are  astrand  on  the  bars ; 
We  are  battered  and  old, 
Yet  at  night  we  behold, 
Outcroppings  of  gold  in  the  stars. 

Chorus — Tho'  battered  and  old, 
Our  hearts  are  bold, 
Yet  oft  do  we  repine; 
For  the  days  of  old, 
For  the  days  of  gold, 
For  the  days  of  forty-nine. 

Where  the  rabbits  play, 
Where  the  quail  all  day 
Pipe  on  the  chaparral  hill; 
A  few  more  days, 
And  the  last  of  us  lays 
His  pick  aside  and  all  is  still. 

Chorus — 

We  are  wreck  and  stray, 

We  are  cast  away, 

Poor  battered  old  hulks  and  spars; 

But  we  hope  and  pray, 

On  the  judgment  day, 

We  shall  strike  it  up  in  the  stars. 
Chorus — 


*  This  poem  is  taken  from  "  '49,  or  the  Gold  Seekers,"  by 
permission  of  Funk  &  Wagnalls,  New  York,  publishers  of  the 
book.  The  words  have  been  set  to  music  and  selected  as  the 
Song  of  the  Native  Sons  of  California.  It  was  sung  in  Mining 
Camps  long  before  it  was  in  print. 

[105] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


SAN    DIEGO 

"O  for  a  beaker  of  the  warm  South; 
The  true,  the  blushful  hypocrine!" 

What  shall  be  said  of  the  sun-born  Pueblo  ? 
This  town  sudden  born  in  the  path  of  the  sun? 
This  town  of  St.  James,  of  the  calm  San  Diego, 
As  suddenly  born  as  if  shot  from  a  gun? 

Why,  speak  of  her  warmly;  why,  write  her 

name  down 

As  softer  than  sunlight,  as  warmer  than  wine! 
Why  speak  of  her  bravely;  this  ultimate  town 
With  feet  in  the  foam  of  the  vast  Argentine: 

The  vast  argent  seas  of  the  Aztec,  of  Cortez! 
The    boundless     white    border    of    battle-torn 

lands — 

The  fall  of  Napoleon,  the  rise  of  red  Juarez — 
The  footfalls  of  nations  are  heard  on  her  sands. 


[106] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


PIONEERS   TO   THE   GREAT   EMERALD 
LAND 

READ  AT  PORTLAND,   1896 

Emerald,  emerald,  emerald  Land; 
Land  of  the  sun  mists,  land  of  the  sea, 
Stately  and  stainless  and  storied  and  grand 
As  cloud-mantled  Hood  in  white  majesty — 
Mother  of  States,  we  are  worn,  we  are  gray — 
Mother  of  men,  we  are  going  away. 

Mother  of  States,  tall  mother  of  men, 
Of  cities,  of  churches,  of  homes,  of  sweet  rest, 
We  are  going  away,  we  must  journey  again, 
As  of  old  we  journeyed  to  the  vast,  far  West. 
We  tent  by  the  river,  our  feet  once  more, 
Please  God,  are  set  for  the  ultimate  shore. 

Mother,  white  mother,  white  Oregon 
In  emerald  kilt,  with  star-set  crown 
Of  sapphire,  say  is  it  night?    Is  it  dawn? 
Say  what  of  the  night?    Is  it  well  up  and  down? 
We  are  going  away.     .    .     .     From  yon  high 

watch  tower, 
Young  men,  strong  men,  say,  what  of  the  hour? 

Young  men,  strong  men,  there  is  work  to  be 

done; 

Faith  to  be  cherished,  battles  to  fight, 
Victories  won  were  never  well  won 
Save  fearlessly  won  for  God  and  the  right. 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


These  cities,  these  homes,  sweet  peace  and  her 

spell 
Be  ashes,  but  ashes,  with  the  infidel. 


Have  Faith,  such  Faith  as  your  fathers  knew, 
All  else  must  follow  if  you  have  but  Faith. 
Be  true  to  their  Faith,  and  you  must  be  true. 
"Lo !  I  will  be  with  you,"  the  Master  saith. 
Good  by,  dawn  breaks;  it  is  coming  full  day 
And  one  by  one  we  strike  tent  and  away. 

Good  by.     Slow  folding  our  snow-white  tents, 
Our  dim  eyes  lift  to  the  farther  shore, 
And  never  these  riddled,  gray  regiments 
Shall  answer  full  roll-call  any  more. 
Yet  never  a  doubt,  nay,  never  a  fear 
Of  old,  or  now,  knew  the  Pioneer. 


[108] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


ALASKA 

Ice  built,  ice  bound  and  ice  bounded, 
Such  cold  seas  of  silence!  such  room! 
Such  snow-light,  such  sea  light  confounded 
With  thunders  that  smite  like  a  doom! 
Such  grandeur!  such  glory!  such  gloom! 
Hear  that  boom !  hear  that  deep  distant  boom 
Of  an  avalanche  hurled 
Down  this  unfinished  world ! 

Ice  seas!  and  ice  summits!  ice  spaces 
In  splendor  of  white,  as  God's  throne ! 
Ice  worlds  to  the  pole !  and  ice  places 
Untracked,  and  unnamed,  and  unknown! 
Hear  that  boom!    Hear  the  grinding,  the  groan 
Of  the  ice-gods  in  pain!     Hear  the  moan 
Of  yon  ice  mountain  hurled 
Down  this  unfinished  world. 

TWILIGHT     AT     THE     RIGHTS 

The  brave  young  city  by  the  Balboa  seas 
Lies  compassed  about  by  the  hosts  of  night — 
Lies  humming,  low,  like  a  hive  of  bees ; 
And  the  day  lies  dead.    And  its  spirit's  flight 
Is  far  to  the  west ;  while  the  golden  bars 
That  bound  it  are  broken  to  a  dust  of  stars. 

Come  under  my  oaks,  oh,  drowsy  dusk ! 
The  wolf  and  the  dog;  dear  incense  hour 
When  Mother  Earth  hath  a  smell  of  musk, 
And  things  of  the  spirit  assert  their  power  — 
When  candles  are  set  to  burn  in  the  west — • 
Set  head  and  foot  to  the  day  at  rest. 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


ARBOR    DAY 

Against  our  golden  orient  dawns 
We  lift  a  living  light  to-day, 
That  shall  outshine  the  splendid  bronze 
That  lords  and  lights  that  lesser  Bay. 

Sweet  Paradise  was  sown  with  trees; 
Thy  very  name,  lorn  Nazareth, 
Means  woods,  means  sense  of  birds  and  bees, 
And  song  of  leaves  with  lisping  breath. 

God  gave  us  Mother  Earth,  full  blest 
With  robes  of  green  in  healthful  fold ; 
We  tore  the  green  robes  from  her  breast ! 
We  sold  our  mother's  robes  for  gold! 

We  sold  her  garments  fair,  and  she 
Lies  shamed  and  naked  at  our  feet! 
In  penitence  we  plant  a  tree; 
We  plant  the  cross  and  count  it  meet. 

Lo,  here,  where  Balboa's  waters  toss, 
Here  in  this  glorious  Spanish  bay, 
We  plant  the  cross,  the  Christian  cross, 
The  Crusade  Cross  of  Arbor  Day. 


[HO] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


BY  THE  BALBOA   SEAS 

The  golden  fleece  is  at  our  feet, 
Our  hills  are  girt  in  sheen  of  gold ; 
Our  golden  flower-fields  are  sweet 
With  honey  hives.     A  thousand-fold 
More  fair  our  fruits  on  laden  stem 
Than  Jordan  tow'rd  Jerusalem. 

Behold  this  mighty  sea  of  seas ! 
The  ages  pass  in  silence  by. 
Gold  apples  of  Hesperides 
Hang  at  our  God-land  gates  for  aye. 
Our  golden  shores  have  golden  keys 
Where  sound  and  sing  the  Balboa  seas. 


MAGNOLIA   BLOSSOMS 

The  broad  magnolia's  blooms  are  white; 
Her  blooms  are  large,  as  if  the  moon 
Had  lost  her  way  some  lazy  night, 
And  lodged  here  till  the  afternoon. 

Oh,  vast  white  blossoms  breathing  love! 
White  bosom  of  my  lady  dead, 
In  your  white  heaven  overhead 
I  look,  and  learn  to  look  above. 


[in] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


CALIFORNIA'S  CHRISTMAS 

The  stars  are  large  as  lilies!     Morn 
Seems  some  illumined  story — 
The  story  of  our  Savior  born, 
Told  from  old  turrets  hoary — 
The  full  moon  smiling  tips  a  horn 
And  hies  to  bed  in  glory! 

My  sunclad  city  walks  in  light 
And  lasting  summer  weather; 
Red  roses  bloom  on  bosoms  white 
And  rosy  cheeks  together. 
If  you  should  smite  one  cheek,  still  smite 
For  she  will  turn  the  other. 

The  thronged  warm  street  tides  to  and  fro 
And  Love,  roseclad,  discloses. 
The  only  snowstorm  we  shall  know 
Is  this  white  storm  of  roses — 
It  seems  like  Maytime,  mating  so, 
And — Nature  counting  noses. 

Soft  sea  winds  sleep  on  yonder  tide ; 
You  hear  some  boatmen  rowing. 
Their  sisters'  hands  trail  o'er  the  side; 
They  toy  with  warm  waves  flowing; 
Their  laps  are  laden  deep  and  wide 
From  rose-trees  green  and  growing. 

Such  roses  white !  such  roses  red ! 
Such  roses  richly  yellow ! 
The  air  is  like  a  perfume  fed 
From  autumn  fruits  full  mellow — 

[112] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


But  see!  a  brother  bends  his  head, 
An  oar  forgets  its  fellow! 

Give  me  to  live  in  land  like  this, 
Nor  let  me  wander  further; 
Some  sister  in  some  boat  of  bliss 
And  I  her  only  brother — 
Sweet  paradise  on  earth  it  is ; 
I  would  not  seek  another. 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


THE  MEN   OF   FORTY-NINE 

Those  brave  old  bricks  of  forty-nine! 
What  lives  they  lived !  what  deaths  they  died ! 
A  thousand  canons,  darkling  wide 
Below  Sierra's  slopes  of  pine, 
Receive  them  now.    And  they  who  died 
Along  the  far,  dim,  desert  route — 
Their  ghosts  are  many.     Let  them  keep 
Their  vast  possessions.    The  Piute, 
The  tawny  warrior,  will  dispute 
No  boundary  with  these.    And  I 
Who  saw  them  live,  who  felt  them  die, 
Say,  let  their  unplow'd  ashes  sleep, 
Untouch'd  by  man,  on  plain  or  steep. 

The  bearded,  sunbrown'd  men  who  bore 
The  burden  of  that  frightful  year, 
Who  toil'd,  but  did  not  gather  store, 
They  shall  not  be  forgotten.     Drear 
And  white,  the  plains  of  Shoshonee 
Shall  point  us  to  that  farther  shore, 
And  long,  white,  shining  lines  of  bones, 
Make  needless  sign  or  white  mile-stones. 

The  wild  man's  yell,  the  groaning  wheel; 
The  train  that  moved  like  drifting  barge; 
The  dust  that  rose  up  like  a  cloud  — 
Like  smoke  of  distant  battle !     Loud 
The  great  whips  rang  like  shot,  and  steel 
Of  antique  fashion,  crude  and  large, 
Flash'd  back  as  in  some  battle  charge. 

They  sought,  yea,  they  did  find  their  rest. 
Along  that  long  and  lonesome  way, 

E«4] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


These  brave  men  buffet' d  the  West 
With  lifted  faces.     Full  were  they 
Of  great  endeavor.     Brave  and  true 
As  stern  Crusader  clad  in  steel, 
They  died  a-field  as  it  was  fit. 
Made  strong  with  hope,  they  dared  to  do 
Achievement  that  a  host  today 
Would  stagger  at,  stand  back  and  reel, 
Defeated  at  the  thought  of  it. 

What  brave  endeavor  to  endure ! 
What  patient  hope,  when  hope  was  past! 
What  still  surrender  at  the  last, 
A  thousand  leagues  from  hope !  how  pure 
They  lived,  how  proud  they  died! 
How  generous  with  life!     The  wide 
And  gloried  age  of  chivalry 
Hath  not  one  page  like  this  to  me. 

Let  all  these  golden  days  go  by, 
In  sunny  summer  weather.     I 
But  think  upon  my  buried  brave, 
And  breathe  beneath  another  sky. 
Let  Beauty  glide  in  gilded  car, 
And  find  my  sundown  seas  afar, 
Forgetful  that  'tis  but  one  grave 
From  eastmost  to  the  westmost  wave. 

Yea,  I  remember!    The  still  tears 
That  o'er  uncoffin'd  faces  fell! 
The  final,  silent,  sad  farewell! 
God!  these  are  with  me  all  the  years! 
They  shall  be  with  me  ever.     I 
Shall  not  forget.     I  hold  a  trust. 
They  are  part  of  my  existence.    When 

["si 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


Swift  down  the  shining  iron  track 

You  sweep,  and  fields  of  corn  flash  back, 

And  herds  of  lowing  steers  move  by, 

And  men  laugh  loud,  in  mute  mistrust, 

I  turn  to  other  days,  to  men 

Who  made  a  pathway  with  their  dust. 


[116] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


THE    HEROES    OF    AMERICA 

O  perfect  heroes  of  the  earth, 
That  conquer'd  forests,  harvest  set! 
O  sires,  mothers  of  my  West! 
How  shall  we  count  your  proud  bequest? 
But  yesterday  ye  gave  us  birth; 
We  eat  your  hard-earned  bread  today, 
Nor  toil  nor  spin  nor  make  regret, 
But  praise  our  petty  selves  and  say 
How  great  we  are.     We  all  forget 
The  still  endurance  of  the  rude 
JJnpolish'd  sons  of  solitude. 

What  strong,  uncommon  men  were  these, 
These  settlers  hewing  to  the  seas ! 
Great  horny-handed  men  and  tan; 
Men  blown  from  many  a  barren  land 
Beyond  the  sea;  men  red  of  hand, 
And  men  in  love,  and  men  in  debt, 
Like  David's  men  in  battle  set; 
And  men  whose  very  hearts  had  died, 
Who  only  sought  these  woods  to  hide 
Their  wretchedness,  held  in  the  van; 
Yet  every  man  among  them  stood 
Alone,  along  that  sounding  wood, 
And  every  man  somehow  a  man. 
They  push'd  the  mailed  wood  aside, 
They  toss'd  the  forest  like  a  toy, 
That  grand  forgotten  race  of  men — 
The  boldest  band  that  yet  has  been 
Together  since  the  siege  of  Troy. 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


YOSEMITE 

Sound! sound!  sound! 
O  colossal  walls  and  crown'd 
In  one  eternal  thunder ! 
Sound!  sound!  sound! 
O  ye  oceans  overhead, 
While  we  walk,  subdued  in  wonder, 
In  the  ferns  and  grasses,  under 
And  beside  the  swift  Merced! 

Fret!  fret!  fret! 

Streaming,  sounding  banners,  set 
On  the  giant  granite  castles 
In  the  clouds  and  in  the  snow ! 
But  the  foe  he  comes  not  yet, — 
We  are  loyal,  valiant  vassals, 
And  we  touch  the  trailing  tassels 
Of  the  banners  far  below. 

Surge!  surge!  surge! 
From  the  white  Sierra's  verge, 
To  the  very  valley  blossom. 
Surge!  surge!  surge! 
Yet  the  song-bird  builds  a  home, 
And  the  mossy  branches  cross  them, 
And  the  tasselled  tree-tops  toss  them, 
In  the  clouds  of  falling  foam. 

Sweep!  sweep!  sweep! 
O  ye  heaven-born  and  deep, 
In  one  dread,  unbroken  chorus! 
We  may  wonder  or  may  weep, — 
We  may  wait  on  God  before  us; 

[118] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 

We  may  shout  or  lift  a  hand, — 
We  may  bow  down  and  deplore  us, 
But  may  never  understand. 

Beat!  beat!  beat! 
We  advance,  but  would  retreat 
From  this  restless,  broken  breast 
Of  the  earth  in  a  convulsion. 
We  would  rest,  but  dare  not  rest, 
For  the  angel  of  expulsion 
From  this  Paradise  below 
Waves  us  onward  and    ...    we  go. 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


DEAD    IN   THE    SIERRAS 

His  footprints  have  failed  us, 
Where  berries  are  red, 
And  madronos  are  rankest, 
The  hunter  is  dead ! 

The  grizzly  may  pass 
By  his  half-open  door; 
May  pass  and  repass 
On  his  path,  as  of  yore ; 

The  panther  may  crouch 
In  the  leaves  on  his  limb ; 
May  scream  and  may  scream, — 
It  is  nothing  to  him. 

Prone,  bearded,  and  breasted 
Like  columns  of  stone ; 
And  tall  as  a  pine — 
As  a  pine  overthrown ! 

His  camp-fires  gone, 
What  else  can  be  done 
Than  let  him  sleep  on 
Till  the  light  of  the  sun? 

Ay,  tombless!  what  of  it? 
Marble  is  dust, 
Cold  and  repellent; 
And  iron  is  rust. 


[120] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


"THE    FOURTH"    IN    OREGON* 

Hail,  Independence  of  old  ways ! 
Old  worlds !    The  West  declares  the  West, 
Her  storied  ways,  her  gloried  days, 
Because  the  West  deserveth  best. 
This  new,  true  land  of  noblest  deeds 
Has  rights,  has  sacred  rights  and  needs. 

Sing,  ye  who  may,  this  natal  day; 
Of  dauntless  thought,  of  men  of  might, 
In  lesser  lands  and  far  away. 
But  truth  is  truth  and  right  is  right. 
And,  oh,  to  sing  like  sounding  flood, 
These  boundless  boundaries  writ  in  blood! 

Three  thousand  miles  of  battle  deeds, 
Of  burning  Moscows,  Cossacks,  snows ; 
Then  years  and  years  of  British  greed, 
Of  grasping  greed;  of  lurking  foes. 
I  say  no  story  ever  writ 
Or  said,  or  sung,  surpasses  it! 

And  who  has  honored  us,  and  who 
Has  bravely  dared  stand  up  and  say: 
"Give  ye  to  Caesar  Caesar's  due?" 
Unpaid,  unpensioned,  mute  and  gray, 
Some  few  survivors  of  the  brave, 
Still  hold  enough  land  for  a  grave. 

How  much  they  dared,  how  much  they  won- 
Why,  o'er  your  banner  of  bright  stars, 
Their  star  should  be  the  blazing  sun 
Above  the  battle  star  of  Mars. 

[121] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


Here,  here  beside  brave  Whitman's  dust, 
Let  us  be  bravely,  frankly  just. 

The  mountains  from  the  first  were  so. 
The  mountains  from  the  first  were  free. 
They  ever  laid  the  tyrant  low, 
And  kept  the  boon  of  liberty. 
The  levels  of  the  earth  alone 
Endured  the  tyrant,  bore  the  throne. 

The  levels  of  the  earth  alone 
Bore  Sodoms,  Babylons  of  crime, 
And  all  sad  cities  overthrown 
Along  the  surging  surf  of  time. 
The  coward,  slave,  creeps  in  the  fen: 
God's  mountains  only  cradle  men. 

Aye,  wise  and  great  was  Washington, 
And  brave  the  men  of  Bunker  Hill; 
Most  brave  and  worthy  every  one, 
In  work  and  faith  and  fearless  will 
And  brave  endeavor  for  the  right, 
Until  yon  stars  burst  through  their  night. 

Aye,  wise  and  good  was  Washington. 
Yet  when  he  laid  his  sword  aside, 
The  bravest  deed  yet  done  was  done. 
And  when  in  stately  strength  and  pride 
He  took  the  plow  and  turned  the  mold 
He  wrote  God's  autograph  in  gold. 

He  wrought  the  fabled  fleece  of  gold 
In  priceless  victories  of  peace, 
With  plowshare  set  in  mother  mold; 
Then  gathering  the  golden  fleece 
[122] 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


About  his  manly,  martial  breast, 
This  farmer  laid  him  down  to  rest. 

O!  this  was  godlike!    And  yet,  who 
Of  all  men  gathered  here  today 
Has  not  drawn  sword  as  swift  as  true, 
Then  laid  its  reddened  edge  away, 
And  took  the  plow,  and  turned  the  mold 
To  sow  yon  sunny  steeps  with  gold. 

Aye,  this  true  valor!     Sing  who  will 
Of  battle  charge,  of  banners  borne 
Triumphant  up  the  blazing  hill 
On  battle's  front,  of  banners  torn, 
Of  horse  and  rider  torn  and  rent, 
Red  regiment  on  regiment. 

Yet  this  were  boy's  play  to  that  man 
Who,  far  out  yonder  lone  frontier, 
With  wife  and  babe  fought  in  the  van, 
Fought  on,  fought  on,  year  after  year. 
No  brave,  bright  flag  to  cheer  the  brave, 
No  farewell  gun  above  his  grave. 

I  say  such  silent  pioneers 
Who  here  set  plowshare  to  the  sun, 
And  silent  gave  their  sunless  years, 
Were  kings  of  heroes  every  one. 
No  Brandywine,  no  Waterloo 
E'er  knew  one  hero  half  so  true! 

A  nation's  honor  for  our  dead, 
God's  pity  for  the  stifled  pain; 
And  tears  as  ever  woman  shed, 
Sweet  woman's  tears  for  maimed  or  slain. 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


But  man's  tears  for  the  mute,  unknown, 
Who  fights  alone,  who  falls  alone. 

The  very  bravest  of  the  brave, 
The  hero  of  all  lands  to  me? 
Far  up  yon  yellow  lifting  wave 
His  brave  ship  cleaves  the  golden  sea. 
And  gold  or  gain,  or  never  gain, 
No  argosy  sails  there  in  vain. 

And  who  the  coward?    Hessian  he, 
Who  turns  his  back  upon  the  field, 
Who  wears  the  slavish  livery 
Of  town  or  city,  sells  his  shield 
Of  honor,  as  his  ilk  of  old 
Sold  body,  soul,  for  British  gold. 

My  heroes,  comrades  of  the  field, 
Content  ye  here ;  here  God  to  you, 
Whatever  fate  or  change  may  yield, 
Has  been  most  generous  and  true. 
Yon  everlasting  snow-peaks  stand 
His  sentinels  about  this  land. 

Yon  bastions  of  God's  house  are  white 
As  heaven's  porch  with  heaven's  peace. 
Behold  His  portals  bathed  in  light! 
Behold  at  hand  the  golden  fleece! 
Behold  the  fatness  of  the  land 
On  every  hill,  on  every  hand! 

Yon  bannered  snow-peaks  point  and  plead 
God's  upward  path,  God's  upward  plan 
Of  peace,  God's  everlasting  creed 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


Of  love  and  brotherhood  of  man. 
Thou  mantled  magistrates  in  white, 
Give  us  His  light !     Give  us  His  light ! 


*  This  poem  was  read,  1896,  near  the  scene  of  the  Whitman 
massacre  at  the  old  Mission.  The  story  of  Oregon — Aure  il 
Agua;  Hear  the  Waters — glowing  with  great  deeds,  drama, 
tragedy,  surpassing  anything  in  the  history  of  any  other  State, 
east  or  west,  old  or  new.  When  the  paw  of  the  British  lion 
reached  down  from  Canada  and  laid  heavy  hand  on  Oregon, 
these  pioneers  met  under  their  great  firs  and  proclaimed  to  the 
world  that  they  were  not  British  subjects,  but  American  citizens. 
Marcus  P.  Whitman  mounted  horse  in  midwinter  and  set  out 
alone  and  rode  3,000  miles  to  lay  the  facts  before  the  President. 
Yet  the  Government  never  lifted  a  hand  to  help  save  Oregon  to 
the  Nation.  So  far  from  that,  a  Senator  rose  in  his  place  and 
literally  denounced  all  effort  in  that  direction,  saying:  "I  would 
to  God  we  had  never  heard  of  that  country;  we  do  not  want 
a  foot  of  ground  on  the  Pacific  Ocean."  Webster  was  hardly 
less  cruel.  But  undaunted,  Whitman  gathered  up  hundreds  of 
wagons  and  led  back  to  Oregon;  the  first  that  ever  crossed  the 
plains.  He  saved  Oregon,  but  lost  his  life  and  all  his  house. 
Then  the  pioneers,  to  avenge  the  massacre,  declared  war  on 
their  own  account,  fought  it  to  a  finish  without  so  much  as  a 
single  man  or  gun  from  the  Government,  made  peace  on  their 
own  account,  and  then  went  to  work  and  dug  their  own  gold 
from  their  own  ground,  and  with  their  own  hands  coined  it 
and  paid  their  war  debts  and  from  the  first  kept  their  paper  with 
its  face  in  virgin  gold.  The  coins,  virgin  gold  with  a  sheaf  of 
wheat  on  one  side,  showing  the  richness  of  the  soil,  and  a 
beaver  on  the  reverse,  typifying  the  industry  of  the  people. 
Oregon  is  the  only  division  of  this  republic  that  ever  coined 
gold  under  authority  of  law.  And  even  in  later  Indian  wars 
Oregon  was  always  treated  meanly,  most  meanly.  More  than 
once  every  man  and  boy  who  could  carry  a  gun  or  drive  a  team 
was  in  the  field.  My  father  and  his  three  sons,  aged  ten,  twelve 
and  fourteen,  were  all  at  one  time  teamsters  in  a  supply  train. 
And  the  Government  paid  for  services  and  supplies  but  tardily, 
if  at  all.  The  meanness  is  incredible.  There  are  millions  still 
due  Oregon.  No,  I  am  not  angry,  or  selfish  either;  I  never 
received  or  claimed  one  cent  for  services,  supplies  or  losses. 
But  some  of  these  old  pioneers  are  in  need  now. 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


AN    ANSWER 

Well !  who  shall  lay  hand  on  my  harp  but  me, 
Or  shall  chide  my  song  from  the  sounding  trees  ? 
The  passionate  sun  and  the  resolute  sea, 
These  were  my  masters,  and  only  these. 

These  were  my  masters,  and  only  these, 
And  these  from  the  first  I  obey'd,  and  they 
Shall  command  me  now,  and  I  shall  obey 
As  a  dutiful  child  that  is  proud  to  please. 

There  never  were  measures  as  true  as  the  sun, 
The  sea  hath  a  song  that  is  passingly  sweet, 
And  yet  they  repeat,  and  repeat,  and  repeat, 
The  same  old  runes  though  the  new  years  run. 

By  unnamed  rivers  of  the  Oregon  north, 
That  roll  dark-heaved  into  turbulent  hills, 

I  have  made  my  home The  wild  heart  thrills 

[With  memories  fierce,  and  a  world  storms  forth. 

On  eminent  peaks  that  are  dark  with  pine, 
And  mantled  in  shadows  and  voiced  in  storms, 
I  have  made  my  camps:  majestic  gray  forms 
Of  the  thunder-clouds,  they  were  companions  of 
mine; 

And  face  set  to  face,  like  to  lords  austere, 
Have  we  talk'd,  red-tongued,  of  the  mysteries 
Of  the  circling  sun,  of  the  oracled  seas, 
[While  ye  who  judged  me  had  mantled  in  fear. 


THE    ULTIMATE    WEST 


Some  fragment  of  thought  in  the  unfinish'd 

words ; 

A  cry  of  fierce  freedom,  and  I  claim  no  more. 
What  more  would  you  have  from  the  tender  of 

herds 
And  of  horse  on  an  ultimate  Oregon  shore? 

From  men  unto  God  go  forth,  as  alone, 
Where  the  dark  pines  talk  in  their  tones  of  the 

sea 

To  the  unseen  God  in  a  harmony 
Of  the  under  seas,  and  know  the  unknown. 


LOG    CABIN    LINES 


LOG   CABIN    LINES 


THE  SOLDIERS*  HOME,  WASHINGTON 

The  monument,  tipped  with  electric  fire, 
Blazed  high  in  a  halo  of  light  below 
My  low  cabin  door  in  the  hills  that  inspire ; 
And  the  dome  of  the  Capitol  gleamed  like  snow 
In  a  glory  of  light,  as  higher  and  higher 
This  wondrous  creation  of  man  was  sent 
To  challenge  the  lights  of  the  firmament. 

A  tall  man,  tawny  and  spare  as  bone, 
With  battered  old  hat  and  with  feet  half  bare, 
With  the  air  of  a  soldier  that  was  all  his  own — 
Aye,  something  more  than  a  soldier's  air — 
Came  clutching  a  staff,  with  a  face  like  stone ; 
Limped  in  through  my  gate — and  I  thought  to 

beg- 
Tight  clutching  a  staff,  slow  dragging  a  leg. 

The  bent  new  moon,  like  a  simitar, 
Kept  peace  in  Heaven.     All  earth  lay  still. 
Some  sentinel  stars  stood  watch  afar, 
Some  crickets  kept  clanging  along  the  hill, 
As  the  tall,  stern  relic  of  blood  and  war 
Limped   in,   and,   with  hand  up  to  brow  half 

raised, 
Limped  up,  looked  about,  as  one  dazed  or  crazed. 


In  the  early  eighties  I  built  a  log  cabin  in  the  edge  of  Wash- 
ington, to  be  more  in  touch  with  both  sideis  of  the  Civil  War  as 
well  as  with  the  smaller  republics.  And  then  many  noble  people 
who  had  been  ruined  in  the  South  were  ill  content  to  live  in 
log  cabins,  as  their  slaves  had  lived.  I  wanted  to  teach  that 
a  log  cabin  can  be  made  very  comfortable,  with  content  at  hand. 


[131] 


LOG   CABIN    LINES 


His  gaunt  face  pleading  for  food  and  rest, 
His  set  lips  white  as  a  tale  of  shame, 
His  black  coat  tight  to  a  shirtless  breast, 
His  black  eyes  burning  in  mine-like  flame; 
But  never  a  word  from  his  set  lips  came 
As  he  whipped  in  line  his  battered  old  leg, 
And  his  knees  made  mouths,  and  as  if  to  beg. 

Aye !  black  were  his  eyes ;  but  doubtful  and  dim 
Their  vision  of  beautiful  earth,  I  think. 
And  I  doubt  if  the  distant,  dear  worlds  to  him 
Were  growing  brighter  as  he  neared  the  brink 
Of  dolorous  seas  where  phantom  ships  swim. 
For  his  face  was  as  hard  as  the  hard,  thin  hand 
That  clutched  that  staff  like  an  iron  band. 

"Sir,  I  am  a  soldier !"     The  battered  old  hat 
Stood  up  as  he  spake,  like  to  one  on  parade — 
Stood  taller  and  braver  as  he  spake  out  that — 
And  the  tattered  old  coat,  that  was  tightly  laid 
To  the  battered  old  breast,  looked  so  trim  thereat 
That  I  knew  the  mouths  of  the  battered  old  leg 
That  had  opened  wide  were  not  made  to  beg. 

"I  have  wandered  and  wandered  this  twenty 

year: 

Searched  up  and  down  for  my  regiments. 
Have  they   gone   to  that   field   where   no   foes 

appear  ? 
Have  they  pitched  in  Heaven  their  cloud- white 

tents? 

Or,  tell  me,  my  friend,  shall  I  find  them  here 
On  the  hill  beyond,  at  the  Soldiers'  Home, 
Where  the  weary  soldiers  have  ceased  to  roam? 


LOG    CABIN    LINES 


"Aye,  I  am  a  soldier  and  a  brigadier ; 
Is  this  the  way  to  the  Soldiers'  Home? 
There  is  plenty  and  rest  for  us  all,  I  hear, 
And  a  bugler,  bidding  us  cease  to  roam, 
Rides  over  the  hill  all  the  livelong  year — 
Rides  calling  and  calling  the  brave  to  come 
And  rest  and  rest  in  that  Soldiers'  Home. 

"Is  this,  sir,  the  way?    I  wandered  in  here 
Just  as  one  oft  will  at  the  close  of  day. 
Aye,  I  am  a  soldier  and  a  brigadier! 
Now,  the  Soldiers'  Home,  sir.    Is  this  the  way? 
I  have  wandered  and  wandered  this  twenty  year, 
Seeking  some  trace  of  my  regiments 
Sabered  and  riddled  and  torn  to  rents. 

"Aye,  I  am  a  soldier  and  a  brigadier ! 
A  battered  old  soldier  in  the  dusk  of  his  day ; 
But  you  don't  seem  to  heed,  or  you  don't  seem  to 

hear, 

Though,  meek  as  I  may,  I  ask  for  the  way 
To  the  Soldiers'  Home,  which  must  be  quite  near, 
While  under  your  oaks,  in  your  easy  chair, 
You  sit  and  you  sit,  and  you  stare  and  you  stare. 

"What  battle?    What  deeds  did  I  do  in  the 

fight? 

Why,  sir,  I  have  seen  green  fields  turn  as  red 
As  yonder  red  town  in  that  marvelous  light ! 
Then  the  great  blazing  guns !     Then  the  ghastly 

white  dead — 

But,  tell  me,  I  faint,  I  must  cease  to  roam ! 
This  battered  leg  aches!    Then  this  sabered  old 

head — 
Is — is  this  the  way  to  the  Soldiers'  Home  ? 

[133] 


LOG    CABIN    LINES 


"Why,  I  hear  men  say  't  is  a  Paradise 
On  the  green  oak  hills  by  the  great  red  town ; 
That  many  old  comrades  shall  meet  my  eyes ; 
That  a  tasseled  young  trooper  rides  up  and  rides 

down, 

With  bugle  horn  blowing  to  the  still  blue  skies, 
Rides  calling  and  calling  us  to  rest  and  to  stay 
In  that  Soldiers'  Home.    Sir,  is  this  the  way? 

"My  leg  is  so  lame!     Then  this  sabered  old 

head — 

Ah !  pardon  me,  sir,  I  never  complain ; 
But  the  road  is  so  rough,  as  I  just  now  said; 
And  then  there  is  this  something  that  troubles 

my  brain. 
It   makes   the   light   dance   from   yon    Capitol's 

dome; 

It  makes  the  road  dim  as  I  doubtfully  tread — 
And — sir,  is  this  the  way  to  the  Soldiers'  Home? 

"From  the  first  to  the  last  in  that  desperate 

war — 

Why,  I  did  my  part.    If  I  did  not  fall, 
A  hair's  breadth  measure  of  this  skull-bone  scar 
Was  all  that  was  wanting ;  and  then  this  ball — 
But  what  cared  I  ?    Ah !  better  by  far 
Have  a  sabered  old  head  and  a  shattered  old  knee 
To  the  end,  than  not  had  the  praise  of  Lee — 

"What !    What  do  I  hear  ?    No  home  there  for 

me? 

Why,  I  heard  men  say  that  the  war  was  at  end! 
Oh,  my  head  swims  so;  and  I  scarce  can  see! 
But  a  soldier's  a  soldier,  I  think,  my  friend, 
Wherever  that  soldier  may  chance  to  be! 


LOG   CABIN    LINES 


And  wherever  a  soldier  may  chance  to  roam, 
Why,  a  Soldiers'  Home  is  a  soldier's  home!" 

He  turned  as  to  go ;  but  he  sank  to  the  grass ; 
And  I  lifted  my  face  to  the  firmament; 
For  I  saw  a  sentinel  white  star  pass, 
Leading  the  way  the  old  soldier  went. 
And  the  light  shone  bright  from  the  Capitol's 

dome, 

Ah,  brighter  from  Washington's  monument, 
Lighting  his  way  to  the  Soldiers'  Home. 

THE  CABIN,  Washington,  D.  C. 


OLIVE 

Dove-borne  symbol,  olive  bough; 
Dove-hued  sign  from  God  to  men, 
As  if  still  the  dove  and  thou 
Kept  companionship  as  then. 

Dove-hued,  holy  branch  of  peace, 
Antique,  all-enduring  tree; 
Deluge  and  the  floods  surcease — 
Deluge  and  Gethsemane. 


[135] 


LOG    CABIN    LINES 


THE  BATTLE  FLAG  AT  SHENANDOAH 

The  tented  field  wore  a  wrinkled  frown, 
And  the  emptied  church  from  the  hill  looked  down 
On  the  emptied  road  and  the  emptied  town, 
That  summer  Sunday  morning. 

And  here  was  the  blue,  and  there  was  the  gray ; 
And  a  wide  green  valley  rolled  away 
Between  where  the  battling  armies  lay, 
That  sacred  Sunday  morning. 

And  Custer  sat,  with  impatient  will, 
His  restless  horse,  'mid  his  troopers  still, 
As  he  watched  with  glass  from  the  oak-set  hill, 
That  silent  Sunday  morning. 

Then  fast  he  began  to  chafe  and  to  fret ; 
"There's  a  battle  flag  on  a  bayonet 
Too  close  to  my  own  true  soldiers  set 
For  peace  this  Sunday  morning !" 

"Ride  over,  some  one,"  he  haughtily  said, 
"And  bring  it  to  me!     Why,  in  bars  blood  red 
And  in  stars  I  will  stain  it,  and  overhead 
Will  flaunt  it  this  Sunday  morning !" 

Then  a  West-born  lad,  pale-faced  and  slim, 
Rode  out,  and  touching  his  cap  to  him, 
Swept  down,  swept  swift  as   Spring  swallows 

swim, 
That  anxious  Sunday  morning. 

On,  on  through  the  valley !  up,  up,  anywhere ! 
That  pale-faced  lad  like  a  bird  through  the  air 
[136] 


LOG    CABIN    LINES 


Kept  on  till  he  climbed  to  the  banner  there 
That  bravest  Sunday  morning! 

And  he  caught  up  the  flag,  and  around  his 

waist 

He  wound  it  tight,  and  he  turned  in  haste, 
And  swift  his  perilous  route  retraced 
That  daring  Sunday  morning. 

All  honor  and  praise  to  the  trusty  steed! 
Ah !  boy,  and  banner,  and  all  God  speed ! 
God's  pity  for  you  in  your  hour  of  need 
This  deadly  Sunday  morning. 

O,  deadly  shot !  and  O,  shower  of  lead ! 
O,  iron  rain  on  the  brave,  bare  head ! 
Why,  even  the  leaves  from  the  trees  fall  dead 
This  dreadful  Sunday  morning! 

But  he  gains  the  oaks!     Men  cheer  in  their 

might ! 

Brave  Custer  is  laughing  in  his  delight ! 
Why,  he  is  embracing  the  boy  outright 
This  glorious  Sunday  morning! 

But,  soft!  Not  a  word  has  the  pale  boy  said. 
He  unwinds  the  flag.  It  is  starred,  striped,  red 
With  his  heart's  best  blood;  and  he  falls  down 

dead, 
In  God's  still  Sunday  morning. 

So,  wrap  this  flag  to  his  soldier's  breast: 
Into  stars  and  stripes  it  is  stained  and  blest ; 
And  under  the  oaks  let  him  rest  and  rest 
Till  God's  great  Sunday  morning. 

[137] 


LOG   CABIN    LINES 


THE    LOST    REGIMENT* 

The  dying  land  cried;  they  heard  her  death- 
call, 

These  bent  old  men  stopped,  listened  intent; 
Then  rusty  old  muskets  rushed  down  from  the 

wall, 

And  squirrel-guns  gleamed  in  that  regiment, 
And  grandsires  marched,  old  muskets  in  hand — 
The  last  men  left  in  the  old  Southland. 

The    gray   grandsires!      They   were    seen   to 

reel, 

Their  rusty  old  muskets  a  wearisome  load ; 
They  marched,  scarce  tall  as  the  cannon's  wheel, 
Marched  stooping  on  up  the  corduroy  road; 
These  gray  old  boys,  all  broken  and  bent, 
Marched  out,  the  gallant  last  regiment. 


*  In  a  pretty  little  village  of  Louisiana  destroyed  by  shells 
toward  the  end  of  the  war,  on  a  bayou  back  from  the  river,  a 
great  number  of  very  old  men  had  been  left  by  their  sons  and 
grandsons,  while  they  went  to  the  war.  And  these  old  men, 
many  of  them  veterans  of  other  wars,  formed  themselves  into  a 
regiment,  made  for  themselves  uniforms,  picked  up  old  flintlock 
guns,  even  mounted  a  rusty  old  cannon,  and  so  prepared  to  go  to 
battle  if  ever  the  war  came  within  their  reach.  Toward  the  close 
of  the  war  some  gunboats  came  down  the  river  shelling  the 
shore.  The  old  men  heard  the  firing,  and,  gathering  together, 
they  set  out  with  their  old  muskets  and  rusty  old  cannon  to  try 
to  reach  the  river  over  the  corduroy  road  through  the  cypress 
swamp.  They  marched  out  right  merrily  that  hot  day,  shouting 
and  bantering  to  encourage  each  other,  the  dim  fires  of  their  old 
eyes  burning  with  desire  of  battle,  although  not  one  of  them  was 
young  enough  to  stand  erect.  And  they  never  came  back  any 
more.  The  shells  from  the  gunboats  set  the  dense  and  sultry 
woods  on  fire.  The  old  men  were  shut  in  by  the  flames — the 
gray  beards  and  the  gray  moss  and  the  gray  smoke  together. 

[138] 


LOG   CABIN    LINES 


But  oh !  that  march  through  the  cypress  trees, 
When  zest  and  excitement  had  died  away! 
That  desolate  march  through  the  marsh  to  the 

knees — 

The  gray  moss  mantling  the  battered  and  gray — 
These  gray  grandsires  all  broken  and  bent — 
The  gray  moss  mantling  the  regiment. 

The  gray  bent  men  and  the  mosses  gray; 
The  dull  dead  gray  of  the  uniform ! 
The  dull  dead  skies,  like  to  lead  that  day, 
Dull,  dead,  heavy  and  deathly  warm! 
Oh,  what  meant  more  than  the  cypress  meant, 
With  its  mournful  moss,  to  that  regiment? 

That  deadly  march  through  the  marshes  deep ! 
That  sultry  day  and  the  deeds  in  vain! 
The  rest  on  the  cypress  roots,  the  sleep — 
The  sleeping  never  to  rise  again ! 
The  rust  on  the  guns;  the  rust  and  the  rent — 
That  dying  and  desolate  regiment! 

The  muskets  left  leaning  against  the  trees, 
The  cannon-wheels  clogged  from  the  moss  o'er- 

head, 

The  cypress  trees  bending  on  obstinate  knees 
As  gray  men  kneeling  by  the  gray  men  dead ! 
A  lone  bird  rising,  long  legged  and  gray, 
Slow  rising  and  rising  and  drifting  away. 

The  dank  dead  mosses  gave  back  no  sound, 
The  drums  lay  silent  as  the  drummers  there; 
The  sultry  stillness  it  was  so  profound 
You  might  have  heard  an  unuttered  prayer; 

[139] 


LOG   CABIN    LINES 


And  ever  and  ever  and  far  away, 

Kept  drifting  that  desolate  bird  in  gray. 

The  long  gray  shrouds  of  that  cypress  wood, 
Like    vails    that    sweep    where    the    gray    nuns 

weep — 

That  cypress  moss  o'er  the  dankness  deep, 
Why,  the  cypress  roots  they  were  running  blood ; 
And  to  right  and  to  left  lay  an  old  man  dead — 
A  mourning  cypress  set  foot  and  head. 

'Twas   man   hunting  men   in  the   wilderness 

there ; 

'Twas  man  hunting  man  and  hunting  to  slay, 
But  nothing  was  found  but  death  that  day, 
And  possibly  God — and  that  bird  in  gray 
Slow  rising  and  rising  and  drifting  away. 

Now  down  in  the  swamp  where  the  gray  men 

fell 

The  fireflies  volley  and  volley  at  night, 
And  black  men  belated  are  heard  to  tell 
Of  the  ghosts  in  gray  in  a  mimic  fight — 
Of  the  ghosts  of  the  gallant  old  men  in  gray 
Who  silently  died  in  the  swamp  that  day. 


[140] 


MISCELLANEOUS  LINES 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


THE    WORLD    IS    A    BETTER    WORLD 

Aye,  the  world  is  a  better  old  world  today! 
And  a  great  good  mother  this  earth  of  ours; 
Her  white  tomorrows  are  a  white  stairway 
To  lead  us  up  to  the  far  star  flowers — 
The  spiral  tomorrows  that  one  by  one 
We  climb  and  we  climb  in  the  face  of  the  sun. 

Aye,  the  world  is  a  braver  old  world  today! 
For  many  a  hero  dares  bear  with  wrong — 
Will  laugh  at  wrong  and  will  turn  away; 
Will  whistle  it  down  the  wind  with  a  song — 
Dares  slay  the  wrong  with  his  splendid  scorn! 
The  bravest  old  hero  that  ever  was  born! 


TO    SAVE   A   SOUL 

It  seems  to  me  a  grandest  thing 
To  save  the  soul  from  perishing 
By  planting  it  where  heaven's  rain 
May  reach  and  make  it  grow  again. 

It  seems  to  me  the  man  who  leaves 
The  soul  to  perish  is  as  one 
Who  gathers  up  the  empty  sheaves 
When  all  the  golden  grain  is  done. 


[143] 


MISCELLANEOUS     LINES 


DOWN  THE  MISSISSIPPI  AT  NIGHT 

Sowing  the  waves  with  a  fiery  rain, 
Leaving  behind  us  a  lane  of  light, 
Weaving  a  web  in  the  woof  of  night, 
Cleaving  a  continent's  wealth  in  twain. 

Lighting  the  world  with  a  way  of  flame, 
Writing,  even  as  the  lightnings  write 
High  over  the  awful  arched  forehead  of  night, 
Jehovah's  dread,  unutterable  name. 


A   NUBIAN   FACE   ON   THE   NILE 

One  night  we  touched  the  lily  shore, 
And  then  passed  on,  in  night  indeed, 
Against  the  far  white  waterfall. 
I  saw  no  more,  shall  know  no  more 
Of  her  for  aye.     And  you  who  read 
This  broken  bit  of  dream  will  smile, 
Half  vexed  that  I  saw  aught  at  all. 


MONTARA 

Montara,  Naples  of  my  West! 

Montara,  Italy  to  me! 
Montara,  newest,  truest,  best 

Of  all  brave  cities  by  this  sea! 

I'd  rather  one  wee  bungalow 

Where  I  mid-March  may  sit  me  down 
And  watch  thy  warm  waves  come  and  go, 

Than  two  whole  blocks  of  Boston  town. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


A   CHRISTMAS   EVE   IN   CUBA 

Their  priests  are  many,  for  many  their  sins, 
Their  sins  are  many,  for  their  land  is  fair; 
The  perfumed  waves  and  the  perfumed  winds, 
The  cocoa-palms  and  the  perfumed  air; 
The  proud  old  Dons,  so  poor  and  so  proud, 
So  poor  their  ghosts  can  scarce  wear  a  shroud — 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  priests  and  prayer; 
And  great  bells  pealing  in  the  palm  land. 

A  proud  Spanish  Don  lies  shriven  and  dead ; 
The  cross  on  his  breast,  a  priest  at  his  prayer ; 
His  slave  at  his  feet,  his  son  at  his  head — 
A  slave's  white  face  in  her  midnight  hair; 
A  slave's  white  face,  why,  a  face  as  white, 
As  white  as  that  dead  man's  face  this  night — 
This  town  of  Columbus  can  pray  for  the  dead ; 
Such  great  bells  booming  in  the  palm  land. 

The  moon  hangs  dead  up  at  heaven's  white 

door; 

As  dead  as  the  isle  of  the  great,  warm  seas; 
As  dead  as  the  Don,  so  proud  and  so  poor, 
With  two  quite  close  by  the  bed  on  their  knees; 
The  slave  at  his  feet,  the  son  at  his  head, 
And  both  in  tears  for  the  proud  man  dead — 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  tears,  if  you  please; 
And  great  bells  pealing  in  the  palm  land. 

Aye,  both  are  in  tears ;  for  a  child  might  trace 
In  the  face  of  the  slave,  as  the  face  of  the  son, 
The  same  proud  look  of  the  dead  man's  face — 
The  beauty  of  one;  and  the  valor  of  one — 
The  slave  at  his  feet,  the  son  at  his  head, 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


This  night  of  Christ,  where  the  Don  lies  dead — 
This  town  of  Columbus,  this  land  of  the  sun 
Keeps  great  bells  clanging  in  the  palm  land. 

The  slave  is  so  fair,  and  so  wonderful  fair ! 
A  statue  stepped  out  from  some  temple  of  old; 
Why,  you  could  entwine  your  two  hands  in  her 

hair, 

Nor  yet  could  encompass  its  ample,  dark  fold. 
And  oh,  that  pitiful,  upturned  face; 
Her  master  lies  dead — she  knows  her  place. 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  hundreds  at  prayer, 
And  great  bells  booming  in  the  palm  land. 

The  proud  Don  dead,  and  this  son  his  heir; 
This  slave  his  fortune.  Now,  what  shall  he  do? 
Why,  what  should  he  do?  or  what  should  he 

care, 
Save  only  to  cherish  a  pride  as  true? — 

To  hide  his  shame  as  the  good  priests  hide 
Black   sins   confessed   when  the   damned   have 

died. 
This   town   of    Columbus   has   pride    with   her 

prayer — 
And  great  bells  pealing  in  the  palm  land! 

Lo !  Christ's  own  hour  in  the  argent  seas, 
And  she,  his  sister,  his  own  born  slave! 
His  secret  is  safe;  just  master  and  she; 
These  two,  and  the  dead  at  the  door  of  the 
grave.     .     . 


[146] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


And  death,  whatever  our  other  friends  do, 
Why,  death,  my  friend,  is  a  friend  most  true — 
This  town  of  Columbus  keeps  pride  and  keeps 

prayer, 
And  her  great  bells  booming  everywhere! 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


COMANCHE 

A  blazing  home,  a  blood-soaked  hearth; 
Fair  woman's  hair  with  blood  upon! 
That  Ishmaelite  of  all  the  earth 
Has  like  a  cyclone,  come  and  gone — 
His  feet  are  as  the  blighting  dearth; 
His  hands  are  daggers  drawn. 

"To  horse!  to  horse!"  the  rangers  shout, 
And  red  revenge  is  on  his  track! 
The  black-haired  Bedouin  en  route 
Looks  like  a  long,  bent  line  of  black. 
He  does  not  halt  nor  turn  about; 
He  scorns  to  once  look  back. 

But  on!  right  on  that  line  of  black, 
Across  the  snow-white,  sand-sown  pass; 
The  bearded  rangers  on  their  track 
Bear  thirsty  sabers  bright  as  glass. 
Yet  not  one  red  man  there  looks  back; 

His  nerves  are  braided  brass. 

****** 

At  last,  at  last,  their  mountain  came 
To  clasp  its  children  in  their  flight! 
Up,  up  from  out  the  sands  of  flame 
They  clambered,  bleeding  to  their  height; 
This  savage  summit,  now  so  tame, 
Their  lone  star,  that  dread  night! 

"Huzzah!     Dismount!"  the  captain  cried. 
"Huzzah !  the  rovers  cease  to  roam ! 
The  river  keeps  yon  farther  side, 
A  roaring  cataract  of  foam. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


They  die,  they  die  for  those  who  died 
Last  night  by  hearth  and  home!" 

His  men  stood  still  beneath  the  steep; 
The  high,  still  moon  stood  like  a  nun. 
The  horses  stood  as  willows  weep; 
Their  weary  heads  drooped  every  one. 
But  no  man  there  had  thought  of  sleep; 
Each  waited  for  the  sun. 

Vast  nun-white  moon!     Her  silver  rill 
Of  snow-white  peace  she  ceaseless  poured; 
The  rock-built  battlement  grew  still, 
The  deep-down   river   roared   and   roared. 
But  each  man  there  with  iron  will 
Leaned  silent  on  his  sword. 

Hark  !     See  what  light  starts  from  the  steep  ! 
And  hear,  ah,  hear  that  piercing  sound. 
It  is  their  lorn  death-song  they  keep 
In  solemn  and  majestic  round. 
The  red  fox  of  these  deserts  deep 
At  last  is  run  to  ground. 


Oh,  it  was  weird,  —  that  wild,  pent  horde! 
Their  death-lights,  their  death-wails  each  one. 
The  river  in  sad  chorus  roared 
And  boomed  like  some  great  funeral  gun. 
The  while  each  ranger  nursed  his  sword 
And  waited  for  the  sun. 


[149] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


OUR    HEROES    OF    TODAY 


With  high  face  held  to  her  ultimate  star, 
With  swift  feet  set  to  her  mountains  of  gold, 
This  new-built  world,  where  the  wonders  are, 
She  has  built  new  ways  from  the  ways  of  old. 

II 

Her   builders    of    worlds    are    workers    with 

hands ; 

Her  true  world-builders  are  builders  of  these, 
The  engines,  the  plows ;  writing  poems  in  sands 
Of  gold  in  our  golden  Hesperides. 

Ill 

I  reckon  these  builders  as  gods  among  men: 
I  count  them  creators,  creators  who  knew 
The  thrill  of  dominion,  of  conquest,  as  when 
God  set  His  stars  spinning  their  spaces  of  blue. 

IV 

A  song  for  the  groove,  and  a  song  for  the 

wheel, 

And  a  roaring  song  for  the  rumbling  car; 
But  away  with  the  pomp  of  the  soldier's  steel, 
And  away  forever  with  the  trade  of  war. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


The  hero  of  time  is  the  hero  of  thought; 
The  hero  who  lives  is  the  hero  of  peace ; 
And  braver  his  battles  than  ever  were  fought, 
From  Shiloh  back  to  the  battles  of  Greece. 

VI 

The  hero  of  heroes  is  the  engineer; 
The  hero  of  height  and  of  gnome-built  deep, 
Whose  only  fear  is  the  brave  man's  fear 
That  some  one  waiting  at  home  might  weep. 

VII 

The  hero  we  love  in  this  land  today 
Is   the   hero   who   lightens    some    fellow-man's 

load — 

Who  makes  of  the  mountain  some  pleasant  high- 
way; 

Who  makes  of  the  desert  some  blossom-sown 
road. 

VIII 

Then   hurrah!    for   the   land   of   the   golden 

downs, 

For  the  golden  land  of  the  silver  horn; 
Her  heroes  have  built  her  a  thousand  towns, 
But  never  destroyed  her  one  blade  of  corn. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


BY    THE    LOWER    MISSISSIPPI 

The  king  of  rivers  has  a  dolorous  shore, 
A  dreamful  dominion  of  cypress-trees, 
A  gray  bird  rising  forever  more, 
And  drifting  away  toward  the  Mexican  seas — 
A  lone  bird  seeking  for  some  lost  mate, 
So  dolorous,  lorn  and  desolate. 

The  shores  are  gray  as  the  sands  are  gray; 
And  gray  are  the  trees  in  their  cloaks  of  moss ; — 
That  gray  bird  rising  and  drifting  away, 
Slow  dragging  its  weary  long  legs  across — 
So  weary,  just  over  the  gray  wood's  brink; 
It  wearies  one,  body  and  soul  to  think. 

These  vast  gray  levels  of  cypress  wood, 
The  gray  soldiers'  graves;  and  so,  God's  will — 
These  cypress-trees'  roots  are  still  running  blood ; 
The  smoke  of  battle  in  their  mosses  still — 
That  gray  bird  wearily  drifting  away 
Was  startled  some  long-since  battle  day. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


HER    PICTURE 

I  see  her  now — the  fairest  thing 
That  ever  mocked  man's  picturing, 
I  picture  her  as  one  who  drew 
Aside  life's  curtain  and  looked  through 
The  mists  of  all  life's  mystery 
As  from  a  wood  to  open  sea. 

I  picture  her  as  one  who  knew 
How  rare  is  truth  to  be  untrue — 
As  one  who  knew  the  awful  sign 
Of  death,  of  life,  of  the  divine 
Sweet  pity  of  all  loves,  all  hates, 
Beneath  the  iron-footed  fates. 

I  picture  her  as  seeking  peace, 
And  olive  leaves  and  vine-set  land; 
While  strife  stood  by  on  either  hand, 
And  wrung  her  tears  like  rosaries. 
I  picture  her  in  passing  rhyme 
As  of,  yet  not  a  part  of,  these — 

A  woman  born  above  her  time. 

The  soft,  wide  eyes  of  wonderment 
That  trusting  looked  you  through  and  through; 
The  sweet,  arched  mouth,  a  bow  new  bent, 
That  sent  love's  arrow  swift  and  true. 

That  sweet,  arched  mouth!    The  Orient 
Hath  not  such  pearls  in  all  her  stores, 
Nor  all  her  storied,  spice-set  shores 
Have  fragrance  such  as  it  hath  spent. 


[153] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


DEAD   IN   THE   LONG,   STRONG   GRASS* 

Dead !  stark  dead  in  the  long,  strong  grass ! 
But  he  died  with  his  sword  in  his  hand. 
Who  says  it?  who  saw  it?     God  saw  it! 
And  I  knew  him!     St.  George!  he  would  draw 

it, 

Though  they  swooped  down  in  mass 
Till  they  darkened  the  land ! 
Then  the  seventeen  wounds  in  his  breast! 
Ah!  these  witness  best! 

Dead!  stark  dead  in  the  long,  strong  grass! 
Dead!  and  alone  in  the  great  dark  land! 
O  mother!  not  Empress  now,  mother! 
A  nobler  name,  too,  than  all  other, 
The  laurel  leaf  fades  from  thy  hand ! 
O  mother  that  waiteth,  a  mass ! 
Masses  and  chants  must  be  said, 
And  cypress,  instead. 

*  Born  to  the  saddle  and  bred  by  a  chain  of  events  to  ride 
with  the  wind  until  I  met  the  stolid  riders  of  England,  I  can 
now  see  how  it  was  that  Anthony  Trollope,  Lord  Houghton  and 
others  of  the  saddle  and  "meet"  gave  me  ready  place  in  their 
midst.  Not  that  the  English  were  less  daring;  but  they  were 
less  fortunate;  may  I  say  less  experienced.  I  recall  the  fact 
that  I  once  found  Lord  Houghton's  brother,  Lord  Crewe,  and 
his  son  also,  under  the  hands  of  the  surgeon,  near  York — one 
with  a  broken  thigh,  and  the  other  with  a  few  broken  ribs.  But 
in  all  our  hard  riding  I  never  had  a  scratch. 

One  morning  Trollope  hinted  that  my  immunity  was  due  to  my 
big  Spanish  saddle,  which  I  had  brought  from  Mexico  City.  I 
threw  my  saddle  on  the  grass  and  rode  without  so  much  as  a 
blanket.  And  I  rode  neck  to  neck;  and  then  left  them  all 
behind  and  nearly  every  one  unhorsed. 

Prince  Napoleon  was  of  the  party  that  morning;   and  as  the 

[154] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


gentlemen  pulled  themselves  together  on  the  return  he  kept  by 
my  side,  and  finally  proposed  a  tour  through  Notts  and  Sherwood 
Forest  on  horseback.  And  so  it  fell  out  that  we  rode  together 
much. 

But  he  had  already  been  persistently  trained  in  the  slow  mili- 
tary methods,  and  it  was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  teach  him  to 
cling  to  his  horse  and  climb  into  the  saddle  as  he  ran,  after  the 
fashion  of  Indians  and  vaqueros.  He  admired  it  greatly,  but 
seemed  to  think  it  unbecoming  a  soldier. 

It  was  at  the  Literary  Fund  dinner,  where  Stanley  and  Prince 
Napoleon  stood  together  when  they  made  their  speeches,  that  I 
saw  this  brave  and  brilliant  young  man  for  the  last  time.  He 
was  about  to  set  out  for  Africa  with  the  English  troops  to  take 
part  in  the  Zulu  war. 

He  seemed  very  serious.  When  about  to  separate  he  took  my 
hand,  and,  looking  me  all  the  time  in  the  face,  placed  a  large 
diamond  on  my  finger,  saying  something  about  its  being  from  the 
land  to  which  he  was  going.  I  refused  to  take  it,  for  I  had 
heard  that  the  Emperor  died  poor.  But  as  he  begged  me  to  keep 
it,  at  least  till  he  should  come  back,  it  has  hardly  left  my  hand 
since  he  placed  it  there. 

Piteous  that  this  heir  to  the  throne  of  France  should  die 
alone  in  the  yellow  grass  at  the  hand  of  savages  in  that  same 
land  where  the  great  Emperor  had  said,  "Soldiers,  from  yonder 
pyramids  twenty  centuries  behold  your  deeds." 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


GARFIELDf 

"Bear  me  out  of  the  battle,  for  lo,  I  am  sorely 
wounded" 

From  out  of  the  vast,  wide-bosomed  West, 
Where  gnarled  old  maples  make  array, 
Deep  scarred  from  Redmen  gone  to  rest, 
Where  unnamed  heroes  hew  the  way 
For  worlds  to  follow  in  their  quest, 
Where  pipes  the  quail,  where  squirrels  play 
Through  tops  of  trees  with  nuts  for  toy, 
A  boy  stood  forth  clear-eyed  and  tall, 
A  timid  boy,  a  bashful  boy, 
Yet  comely  as  a  son  of  Saul — 
A  boy  all  friendless,  all  unknown, 
Yet  heir  apparent  to  a  throne: 

A  throne  the  proudest  yet  on  earth 
For  him  who  bears  him,  noblest,  best, 
And  this  he  won  by  simple  worth, 
That  boy  from  out  the  wooded  West. 
And  now  to  fall!     Pale-browed  and  prone 
He  lies  in  everlasting  rest. 
The  nations  clasp  the  cold,  dead  hand; 
The  nations  sob  aloud  at  this; 
The  only  dry  eyes  in  the  land 
Now  at  the  last  we  know  are  his ; 
While  she  who  sends  a  wreath  has  won 
More  conquests  than  her  hosts  had  done. 

Brave  heart,  farewell.     The  wheel  has  run 
Full  circle,  and  behold  a  grave 
Beneath  thy  loved  old  trees  is  done. 

[156] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


The  druid  oaks  look  up  and  wave 
A  solemn  beckon  back.     The  brave 
Old  maples  welcome,  every  one. 
Receive  him,  earth.     In  center  land, 
As  in  the  center  of  each  heart, 
As  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand, 
The  coffin  sinks.     And  we  depart 
Each  on  his  way,  as  God  deems  best 
To  do,  and  so  deserve  to  rest. 


f  Walt  Whitman  chanced  to  be  in  Boston  when  I  last  visited 
Mr.  Longfellow,  and  I  was  delighted  to  hear  the  poet  at  his 
table  in  the  midst  of  his  perfect  family  speak  of  him  most 
kindly;  for  at  this  time  the  press  and  all  small  people  were 
abusing  Whitman  terribly.  Soon  after  he  looked  me  up  at  my 
hotel  in  Boston,  and  we  two  called  on  the  good,  gray  poet 
together.  I  mention  this  merely  to  italicize  the  suggestion  that 
Longfellow's  was  a  large  nature. 

Many  others,  I  know,  stood  nearer  him,  so  much  nearer  and 
dearer,  and  maybe  I  ought  not  to  claim  the  right  to  say  much 
of  a  sacred  nature;  but  somehow  I  always  felt,  when  he  reached 
out  his  right  hand  and  drew  me  to  him,  and  looked  me  fairly 
and  silently  in  the  face  with  his  earnest  seer  eyes,  that  he 
knew  me,  did  not  dislike  me,  and  that  he  knew,  soul  to  soul, 
we  each  sought  the  good  and  the  beautiful  and  true,  each  after 
his  fashion,  and  as  best  he  knew. 

He  had  a  pretty  way  of  always  getting  out  of  the  house — that 
beautiful  house  of  his,  where  Washington  had  dwelt — into  the 
woods.  He  possessed  a  wonderful  lot  of  books,  but  he  knew  the 
birds,  the  crickets,  the  flowers,  woods  and  grasses  were  more  in 
my  way,  and  with  rare  delicacy  he  never  talked  on  books  at  all, 
but  led  out  at  once,  whenever  possible,  to  our  mutual  friends  in 
the  rear  of  the  old  Headquarters  of  Washington. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  a  pall  of  black  suddenly  fell  upon 
the  Republic.  Garfield  lay  dead  at  Elberon! 

A  publisher  solicited  from  each  of  the  several  authors  then  in 
and  about  Boston  some  tribute  of  sorrow  for  the  dead.  The 
generous  sum  of  $100  was  checked  as  an  earnest  I  remember 
how  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  and  I  went  to  big-hearted  Walt  Whit- 
man and  wrestled  with  him  in  a  vain  effort  to  make  him  earn 
and  accept  his  $100. 


[iS7] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


"Yes,  I'm  sorry  as  the  sorriest;  sympathize  with  the  great 
broken  heart  of  the  world  over  this  dead  sovereign  citizen.  But 
I've  nothing  to  say." 

And  so,  persuade  as  we  might,  even  till  past  midnight,  Walt 
Whitman  would  not  touch  the  money  or  try  to  write  a  line.  He 
was  poor;  but  bear  it  forever  in  testimony  that  he  was  honest, 
and  would  not  promise  to  sell  that  which  he  felt  that  God  had 
not  at  that  moment  given  him  to  sell.  And  hereafter,  whenever 
any  of  you  are  disposed  to  speak  or  even  think  unkindly  of  Walt 
Whitman,  remember  this  refusal  of  his  to  touch  a  whole  heap 
of  money  when  he  might  have  had  it  for  ten  lines,  and  maybe 
less  than  ten  minutes'  employment.  I  love  him  for  it.  There 
is  not  a  butcher,  nor  a  baker,  nor  a  merchant,  nor  a  banker  in 
America,  perhaps,  who  would  have  been,  under  the  circum- 
stances, so  stubbornly,  savagely  honest  with  the  world  and 
himself. 

Early  next  morning  I  went  to  Mr.  Longfellow  in  great  haste 
and  read  my  lines.  Kindly  he  listened  as  I  read,  and  then  care- 
fully looked  them  all  over  and  made  some  important  improve- 
ments. He  had  also  partly  written,  and  read  me,  his  poem  on 
the  sad  theme.  But  it  was  too  stately  and  fine  for  company 
with  our  less  mature  work,  and  at  the  last  moment  it  was  with- 
held on  the  plea  that  it  was  still  incomplete.  It  soon  after 
appeared  in  the  New  York  Independent.  As  I  was  hastening 
away  with  my  manuscript  for  the  press,  he  said  as  he  came  with 
rae  down  to  the  gate,  that  the  Queen  of  England  had  done  more 
to  conquer  America  by  sending  the  wreath  for  the  funeral  of  the 
dead  President  than  all  the  Georges  had  ever  done  with  all  their 
troops  and  cannon.  And  he  said  it  in  such  a  poetical  way  that 
I  thought  it  an  unfinished  couplet  of  his  poem.  I  never  saw 
him  any  more. 


[158] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


HE   LOVES   AND    RIDES   AWAY 

A  fig  for  her  story  of  shame  and  of  pride! 
She  strayed  in  the  night  and  her  feet  fell  astray ; 
The  great  Mississippi  was  glad  that  day, 
And  that  is  the  reason  the  poor  girl  died; 
The  great  Mississippi  was  glad,  I  say, 
And  splendid  with  strength  in  his  fierce,   full 

pride — 
And  that  is  the  reason  the  poor  girl  died. 

And  that  was  the  reason,  from  first  to  last ; 
Down  under  the  dark,  still  cypresses  there. 
The  Father  of  Waters  he  held  her  fast. 
He  kissed  her  face,  he  fondled  her  hair, 
No  more,  no  more  an  unloved  outcast, 
He  clasped  her  close  to  his  great,  strong  breast, 
Brave  lover  that  loved  her  last  and  best: 

Around  and  around  in  her  watery  world, 
Down  under  the  boughs  where  the  bank  was 

steep, 

And  cypress  trees  kneeled  all  gnarly  and  curled, 
Where  woods   were   dark   as   the   waters   were 

deep, 
Where   strong,    swift   waters   were   swept   and 

swirled, 
Where  the  whirlpool  sobbed  and  sucked  in  its 

breath, 
As  some  great  monster  that  is  choking  to  death : 

Where    sweeping    and    swirling    around    and 

around 

That  whirlpool  eddied  so  dark  and  so  deep 
That  even  a  populous  world  might  have  drowned, 

[159] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


So  surging,  so  vast  and  so  swift  its  sweep — 
She  rode  on  the  wave.    And  the  trees  that  weep, 
The  solemn  gray  cypresses  leaning  o'er; 
The  roots  that  ran  blood  as  they  leaned  from  the 
shore ! 

She   surely   was   drowned!     But   she   should 

have  lain  still; 
She  should  have  lain  dead  as  the  dead  under 

ground ; 
She  should  have  kept  still  as  the  dead  on  the 

hill! 

But  ever  and  ever  she  eddied  around, 
And  so  nearer  and  nearer  she  drew  me  there 
Till  her  eyes  met  mine  in  their  cold  dead  stare. 

Then  she  looked,  and  she  looked  as  to  look 

me  through; 

And  she  came  so  close  to  my  feet  on  the  shore; 
And  her  large  eyes,  larger  than  ever  before, 
They  never  grew  weary  as  dead  men's  do. 
And  her  hair!  as  long  as  the  moss  that  swept 
From  the  cypress  trees  as  they  leaned  and  wept. 

Then  the  moon  rose  up,  and  she  came  to  see, 
Her  long  white  fingers  slow  pointing  there; 
Why,  shoulder  to  shoulder  the  moon  with  me 
On  the  bank  that  night,  with  her  shoulders  bare, 
Slow  pointing  and  pointing  that  white  face  out, 
As  it  swirled  and  it  swirled,  and  it  swirled 
about. 

There  ever  and  ever,  around  and  around, 
Those  great  sad  eyes  that  refused  to  sleep! 
Reproachful  sad  eyes  that  had  ceased  to  weep! 
[160] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


And  the  great  whirlpool  with  its  gurgling  sound ! 
The  reproachful  dead  that  was  not  yet  dead! 
The  long  strong  hair  from  that  shapely  head! 

Her  hair  was  so  long!  so  marvelous  long, 
As  she  rode  and  she  rode  on  that  whirlpool's 

breast ; 

And  she  rode  so  swift,  and  she  rode  so  strong, 
Never  to  rest  as  the  dead  should  rest. 
Oh,  tell  me  true,  could  her  hair  in  the  wave 
Have  grown,  as  grow  dead  men's  in  the  grave? 

For,  hist!  I  have  heard  that  a  virgin's  hair 
Will  grow  in  the  grave  of  a  virgin  true, 
Will  grow  and  grow  in  the  coffin  there, 
Till  head  and  foot  it  is  filled  with  hair 
All  silken  and  soft — but  what  say  you? 
Yea,  tell  me  truly  can  this  be  true? 

For  oh,  her  hair  was  so  strangely  long 
That  it  bound  her  about  like  a  veil  of  night, 
With  only  her  pitiful  face  in  sight! 
As  she  rode  so  swift,  and  she  rode  so  strong, 
That  it  wrapped  her  about,  as  a  shroud  had  done, 
A  shroud,  a  coffin,  and  a  veil  in  one. 

And  oh,  that  ride  on  the  whirling  tide ! 
That  whirling  and  whirling  it  is  in  my  head, 
For  the  eyes  of  my  dead  they  are  not  yet  dead, 
Though  surely  the  lady  had  long  since  died: 
Then  the  mourning  wood  by  the  watery  grave; 
The  moon's  white  face  to  the  face  in  the  wave. 


[161] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


That  moon  I  shall  hate!     For  she  left  her 

place 

Unasked  up  in  heaven  to  show  me  that  face. 
I  shall  hate  forever  the  sounding  tide; 
For  oh,  that  swirling  it  is  in  my  head 
As  it  swept  and  it  swirled  with  my  dead  not 

dead, 
As  it  gasped  and  it  sobbed  as  a  God  that  had 

died. 


[162] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE 

Sing  banners  and  cannon  and  roll  of  drum! 
The  shouting  of  men  and  the  marshaling! 
Lo!  cannon  to  cannon  and  earth  struck  dumb! 
Oh,  battle,  in  song,  is  a  glorious  thing! 

Oh,  glorious  day,  riding  down  to  the  fight ! 
Oh,  glorious  battle  in  story  and  song! 
Oh,  godlike  man  to  die  for  the  right! 
Oh,  manlike  God  to  revenge  the  wrong! 

Yea,  riding  to  battle,  on  battle  day — 
Why,  a  soldier  is  something  more  than  a  king! 
But  after  the  battle!     The  riding  away! 
Ah,  the  riding  away  is  another  thing! 


163] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


THOSE   PERILOUS   SPANISH    EYES 

Some  fragrant  trees, 
Some  flower-sown  seas 
Where  boats  go  up  and  down, 
And  a  sense  of  rest 
To  the  tired  breast 
In  this  beauteous  Aztec  town. 

But  the  terrible  thing  in  this  Aztec  town 
That  will  blow  men's  rest  to  the  stormiest  skies, 
Or  whether  they  journey  or  they  lie  down — 
Those  perilous  Spanish  eyes! 

Snow  walls  without, 
Drawn  sharp  about 
To  prop  the  sapphire  skies! 
Two  huge  gate  posts, 
Snow-white  like  ghosts — 
Gate  posts  to  paradise ! 

But,  oh !  turn  back  from  the  high-walled  town ! 
There  is  trouble  enough  in  this  world,  I  surmise, 
Without  men  riding  in  regiments  down — 
Oh,  perilous  Spanish  eyes! 

MEXICO  CITY,  1880. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


NEWPORT  NEWS 

The  huge  sea  monster,  the  "Merrimac" ; 
The  mad  sea  monster,  the  "Monitor"; 
You  may  sweep  the  sea,  peer  forward  and  back, 
But  never  a  sign  or  a  sound  of  war. 
A  vulture  or  two  in  the  heavens  blue; 
A  sweet  town  building,  a  boatman's  call: 
The  far  sea-song  of  a  pleasure  crew; 
The  sound  of  hammers.     And  that  is  all. 

And  where  are  the  monsters  that  tore  this 

main? 
And  where  are  the  monsters  that  shook  this 

shore  ? 

The  sea  grew  mad!    And  the  shore  shot  flame! 
The  mad  sea  monsters  they  are  no  more. 
The  palm,  and  the  pine,  and  the  sea  sands  brown ; 
The  far  sea  songs  of  the  pleasure  crews; 
The  air  like  balm  in  this  building  town — 
And  that  is  the  picture  of  Newport  News. 


[165] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


THE    COMING    OF    SPRING 

My  own  and  my  only  Love  some  night 
Shall  keep  her  tryst,  shall  come  from  the  South, 
And  oh,  her  robe  of  magnolia  white! 
And  oh,  and  oh,  the  breath  of  her  mouth! 

And  oh,  her  grace  in  the  grasses  sweet! 
And  oh,  her  love  in  the  leaves  new  born! 
And  oh,  and  oh,  her  lily-white  feet 
Set  daintily  down  in  the  dew-wet  morn! 

The  drowsy  cattle  at  night  shall  kneel 
And  give  God  thanks,  and  shall  dream  and  rest; 
The  stars  slip  down  and  a  golden  seal 
Be  set  on  the  meadows  my  Love  has  blest. 

Come   back,    my   Love,    come   sudden,    come 

soon. 

The  world  lies  waiting  as  the  cold  dead  lie; 
The  frightened  winds  wail  and  the  crisp-curled 

moon 
Rides,  wrapped  in  clouds,  up  the  cold  gray  sky. 

Oh,  Summer,  my  Love,  my  first,  last  Love! 
I  sit  all  day  by  Potomac  here,  • 
Waiting  and  waiting  the  voice  of  the  dove; 
Waiting  my  darling,  my  own,  my  dear. 

THE  CABIN,  Washington,  D.  C. 


[166] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


CHRISTMAS    BY    THE    GREAT    RIVER 

Oh,  lion  of  the  ample  earth, 
What  sword  can  cleave  thy  sinews  through? 
The  south  forever  cradles  you; 
And  yet  the  great  North  gives  you  birth. 

Go  find  an  arm  so  strong,  so  sure, 
Go  forge  a  sword  so  keen,  so  true, 
That  it  can  thrust  thy  bosom  through; 
Then  may  this  union  not  endure! 

In  orange  lands  I  lean  today 
Against  thy  warm  tremendous  mouth, 
Oh,  tawny  lion  of  the  South, 
To  hear  what  story  you  shall  say. 

What  story  of  the  stormy  North, 
Of  frost-bound  homes,  of  babes  at  play — 
What  tales  of  twenty  States  the  day 
You  left  your  lair  and  leapt  forth: 

The  day  you  tore  the  mountain's  breast 
And  in  the  icy  North  uprose, 
And  shook  your  sides  of  rains  and  snows, 
And  rushed  against  the  South  to  rest: 

Oh,  tawny  river,  what  of  they, 
The  far  North  folk?     The  maiden  sweet — 
The  ardent  lover  at  her  feet — 
What  story  of  thy  States  today! 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


The  river  kissed  my  garment's  hem, 
And  whispered  as  it  swept  away: 
"God's  story  in  all  States  today 
Is  of  a  babe  of  Bethlehem." 


[168] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


THOMAS   OF   TIGRE* 

King  of  Tigre,  comrade  true 
Where  in  all  thine  isles  art  thou? 
Sailing  on  Fonseca  blue? 
Nearing  Amapala  now? 
King  of  Tigre,  where  art  thou? 

Battling  for  Antilles'  queen? 
Saber  hilt,  or  olive  bough? 
Crown  of  dust,  or  laurel  green? 
Roving  love,  or  marriage  vow? 
King   and   comrade,   where   art  thou? 

Sailing  on  Pacific  seas? 

Pitching  tent  in  Pimo  now? 
Underneath  magnolia  trees? 
Thatch  of  palm,  or  cedar  bough? 
Soldier  singer,  where  art  thou? 

Coasting  on  the  Oregon? 
Saddle  bow,  or  birchen  prow? 
Round  the  Isles  of  Amazon? 
Pampas,   plain,   or  mountain  brow? 
Prince  of  rovers,  where  art  thou? 


*  This  was  a  brave  old  boyhood  friend  in  the  Mount  Shasta 
Days.  You  will  find  him  there  as  the  Prince  in  my  "Life  Among 
the  Modocs,"  "Unwritten  History,  Paquita,"  "My  Life  Among 
the  Indians,"  "My  Own  Story,"  or  whatever  other  name  enter- 
prising or  piratical  publishers,  Europe  or  America,  may  have 
chosen  to  give  the  one  prose  book  Mulford  and  I  put  out  in 
London  during  the  Modoc  war.  This  man,  Prince  Thomas, 
now  of  Leon,  Nicaragua,  was  a  great  favorite  and  my  best 
friend,  in  one  sense  for  years  in  Europe.  He  had  passed  the 
most  adventurous  life  conceivable,  at  one  time  having  been  king 
of  an  island.  He  gloried  in  the  story  of  his  wild  life,  spent 


[169] 


MISCELLANEOUS     LINES 


money  like  a  real  prince,  and  was  the  envy  and  admiration  of 
fashionable  club  men. 

"Where  in  all  the  world,  and  when,  did  he  get  so  much 
money?  "  once  asked  the  president  of  the  Savage  Club. 

"Well,  I  am  not  certain  whether  it  was  as  a  pirate  of  the 
South  Seas  or  merely  as  a  brigand  of  Mexico,"  I  answered. 

This  answer  coming  to  the  ears  of  Thomas,  he  so  far  from 
being  angered  was  greatly  pleased  and  laughed  heartily  over  it 
with  some  friends  at  Lord  Houghton's  table. 


1 170] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


THE  QUEEN  OF  MY  DREAMS 

I  dream'd,  O  Queen,  of  you,  last  night; 
I  can  but  dream  of  thee  today. 
But  dream  ?     Oh !  I  could  kneel  and  pray 
To  one,  who,  like  a  tender  light, 
Leads  ever  on  my  lonesome  way, 
And  will  not  pass — yet  will  not  stay. 

I  dream'd  we  roam'd  in  elden  land; 
I  saw  you  walk  in  splendid  state, 
With  lifted  head  and  heart  elate, 
And  lilies  in  your  white  right  hand, 
Beneath  your  proud  Saint  Peter's  dome 
That,  silent,  lords  almighty  Rome. 

A  diamond  star  was  in  your  hair, 
Your  garments  were  of  gold  and  snow; 
And  men  did  turn  and  marvel  so, 
And  men  did  say,  How  matchless  fair! 
And  all  men  follow'd  as  you  pass'd; 
But  I  came  silent,  lone,  and  last. 

And  holy  men  in  sable  gown, 
And  girt  with  cord,  and  sandal  shod, 
Did  look  to  thee,  and  then  to  God. 
They  cross'd  themselves,  with  heads  held  down; 
They  chid  themselves,  for  fear  that  they 
Should,  seeing  thee,  forget  to  pray. 

Men  pass'd,  men  spake  in  wooing  word; 
Men  pass'd,  ten  thousand  in  a  line. 
You  stood  before  the  sacred  shrine, 
You  stood  as  if  you  had  not  heard. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


And  then  you  turn'd  in  calm  command, 
And  laid  two  lilies  in  my  hand. 

O  Lady,  if  by  sea  or  land 
You  yet  might  weary  of  all  men, 
And  turn  unto  your  singer  then, 
Ana  lay  one  lily  in  his  hand, 
Lo!  I  would  follow  true  and  far 
As  seamen  track  the  polar  star. 

My  soul  is  young,  my  heart  is  strong; 
O  Lady,  reach  a  hand  today, 
And  thou  shalt  walk  the  milky  way, 
For  I  will  give  thy  name  to  song. 
Yea,  I  am  of  the  kings  of  thought, 
And  thou  shalt  live  when  kings  are  not. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


THE  POET 

Yes,  I  am  a  dreamer.     Yet  while  you  dream, 
Then  I  am  awake.     When  a  child,  back  through 
The  gates  of  the  past  I  peer'd,  and  I  knew 
The  land  I  had  lived  in.    I  saw  a  broad  stream, 
Saw  rainbows  that  compass'd  a  world  in  their 

reach ; 

I  saw  my  beloved  go  down  on  the  beach; 
Saw  her  lean  to  this  earth,  saw  her  looking  for 

me 

As  shipmen  looked  for  loved  ship  at  sea.     .     .     . 
While  you  seek  gold  in  the  earth,  why,  I 
See  gold  in  the  steeps  of  the  starry  sky; 
And  which  do  you  think  has  the  fairer  view 
Of  God  in  heaven — the  dreamer  or  you? 


LINCOLN   PARK 

Unwalled  it  lies,  and  open  as  the  sun 
When  God  swings  wide  the  dark  doors  of  the 

East. 

Oh,  keep  this  one  spot,  still  this  one, 
Where  tramp  or  banker,  laymen  or  high  priest, 
May  equal  meet  before  the  face  of  God: 
Yea,  equals  stand  upon  that  common  sod 
Where  they  shall  one  day  equals  be 
Beneath,  for  aye,  and  all  eternity. 


[173] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


THE    RIVER    OF    REST 

A  beautiful  stream  is  the  River  of  Rest; 
The  still,  wide  waters  sweep  clear  and  cold, 
A  tall  mast  crosses  a  star  in  the  west, 
A  white  sail  gleams  in  the  west  world's  gold: 
It  leans  to  the  shore  of  the  River  of  Rest — 
The  lily-lined  shore  of  the  River  of  Rest. 

The  boatman  rises,  he  reaches  a  hand, 
He  knows  you  well,  he  will  steer  you  true, 
And  far,  so  far,  from  all  ills  upon  land, 
From  hates,  from  fates  that  pursue  and  pursue; 
Far  over  the  lily-lined  River  of  Rest — 
Dear  mystical,  magical  River  of  Rest. 

A  storied,  sweet  stream  is  this  River  of  Rest; 
The  souls  of  all  time  keep  its  ultimate  shore; 
And  journey  you  east  or  journey  you  west, 
Unwilling,  or  willing,  sure  footed  or  sore, 
You  surely  will  come  to  this  River  of  Rest — 
This  beautiful,  beautiful  River  of  Rest. 


[174] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


THE   NEW   PRESIDENT 

Granite  and  marble  and  granite, 
Corridor,  column  and  dome! 
A  capital  huge  as  a  planet 
And  massive  as  marble-built  Rome. 

Stair  steps  of  granite  to  glory! 
Go  up  with  thy  face  to  the  sun; 
They  are  stained  with  the  footsteps  and 

story 
Of  giants  and  battles  well  won. 

Stop — stand  on  this  stairway  of  granite, 
Lo!  Arlington,  storied  and  still, 
With  a  lullaby  hush.     But  the  land  it 
Springs  fresh  as  that  sun-fronted  hill. 

Beneath  us  stout-hearted  Potomac 
In  majesty  moves  to  the  sea — 
Beneath  us  a  sea  of  proud  people 
Moves  on,  undivided  as  he. 

Yea,  strife  it  is  over  and  ended 
For  all  the  days  under  the  sun; 
The  banners  unite  and  are  blended 
As  moonlight  and  sunlight  in  one. 

Lo !  banners  and  banners  and  banners, 
Broad  star-balanced  banners  of  blue — 
If  a  single  star  fell  from  fair  heaven, 
Why,  what  would  befall  us  think  you? 


[175] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


MONTGOMERY    AT    QUEBEC 

Sword  in  hand  he  was  slain; 
The  snow  his  winding  sheet; 
The  grinding  ice  at  his  feet — 
The  river  moaning  in  pain. 

Pity  and  peace  at  last; 
Flowers  for  him  today 
Above  on  the  battlements  gray — 
And  the  river  rolling  past. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


AFRICA 

Oh!  she  is  very  old.    I  lay, 
Made  dumb  with  awe  and  wonderment, 
Beneath  a  palm  before  my  tent, 
With  idle  and  discouraged  hands, 
Not  many  days  ago,  on  sands 
Of  awful,  silent  Africa. 
Long  gazing  on  her  ghostly  shades, 
That  lift  their  bare  arms  in  the  air, 
I  lay.     I  mused  where  story  fades 
From  her  dark  brow  and  found  her  fair. 

A  slave,  and  old,  within  her  veins 
There  runs  that  warm,  forbidden  blood 
That  no  man  dares  to  dignify 
In  elevated  song.     The  chains 
That  held  her  race  but  yesterday 
Hold  still  the  hands  of  men.     Forbid 
Is  Ethiop.     The  turbid  flood 
Of  prejudice  lies  stagnant  still, 
And  all  the  world  is  tainted.     Will 
And  wit  lie  broken  as  a  lance 
Against  the  brazen  mailed  face 
Of  old  opinion.     None  advance, 
Steel-clad  and  glad,  to  the  attack, 
With  trumpet  and  with  song.     Look  back! 
Beneath  yon  pyramids  lie  hid 
The  histories  of  her  great  race.     .     .     . 
Old  Nilus  rolls  right  sullen  by, 
With  all  his  secrets.     Who  shall  say: 
My  father  rear'd  a  pyramid; 
My  brother  clipped  the  dragon's  wings; 
My  mother  was  Semiramis? 
Yea,  harps  strike  idly  out  of  place; 

[177] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


Men  sing  of  savage  Saxon  kings 
New-born  and  known  but  yesterday, 
And  Norman  blood  presumes  to  say.     .     . 

Nay,  ye  who  boast  ancestral  name 
And  vaunt  deeds  dignified  by  time 
Must  not  despise  her.     Who  hath  worn 
Since  time  began  a  face  that  is 
So  all-enduring,  old  like  this — 
A  face  like  Africa's?    Behold! 
The  Sphinx  is  Africa.     The  bond 
Of  silence  is  upon  her.     Old 
And  white  with  tombs,  and  rent  and  shorn; 
With  raiment  wet  with  tears,  and  torn, 
And  trampled  on,  yet  all  untamed; 
All  naked  now,  yet  not  ashamed, — 
The  mistress  of  the  young  world's  prime, 
Whose  obelisks  still  laugh  at  time, 
And  lift  to  heaven  her  fair  name, 
Sleeps  satisfied  upon  her  fame. 

Beyond  the  Sphinx,  and  still  beyond, 
Beyond  the  tawny  desert-tomb 
Of  Time;  beyond  tradition,  loom 
And  lifts,  ghost-like,  from  out  the  gloom, 
Her  thousand  cities,  battle-torn 
And  gray  with  story  and  with  Time. 
Her  humblest  ruins  are  sublime; 
Her  thrones  with  mosses  overborne 
Make  velvets  for  the  feet  of  Time. 

She  points  a  hand  and  cries:     "Go  read 
The  letter'd  obelisks  that  lord 
Old  Rome,  and  know  my  name  and  deed. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


My  archives  these,  and  plunder'd  when 
I  had  grown  weary  of  all  men." 
We  turn  to  these;  we  cry:     "Abhorr'd 
Old  Sphinx,  behold,  we  cannot  read!" 


[179] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


SUMMER  MOONS   AT  MOUNT  VERNON 

Such  musky  smell  of  maiden  night! 
Such  bridal  bough,  like  orange  tree! 
Such  wondrous  stars!     Yon  lily  moon 
Seems  like  some  long-lost  afternoon! 

More  perfect  than  a  string  of  pearls 
We  hold  the  full  days  of  the  year; 
The  days  troop  by  like  flower  girls, 
And  all  the  days  are  ours  here. 
Here  youth  must  learn;  here  age  may  live 
Full  tide  each  day  the  year  can  give. 

No  frosted  wall,  no  frozen  hasp, 
Shuts  Nature's  book  from  us  today; 
Her  palm  leaves  lift  too  high  to  clasp; 
Her  college  walls,  the  milky  way. 
The  light  is  with  us!     Read  and  lead! 
The  larger  book,  the  loftier  deed! 


[180] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


THE    POEM    BY    THE    POTOMAC* 

Paine!     The  Prison  of  France!     Lafayette! 
The  Bastile  key  to  our  Washington, 
Whose  feet  on  the  neck  of  tyrants  set 
Shattered  their  prisons  every  one. 
The  key  hangs  here  on  his  white  walls  high, 
That  all  shall  see,  that  none  shall  forget 
What  tyrants  have  been,  what  they  may  be  yet; 
And  the  Potomac  rolling  by. 

On  Washington's  walls  let  it  rust  and  rust, 
And  tell  its  story  of  blood  and  of  tears, 
That  Time  still  holds  to  the  Poet's  trust, 
To  people  his  pages  for  years  and  years. 
The  monstrous  shape  on  the  white  walls  high, 
Like  a  thief  in  chains  let  it  rot  and  rust — 
Its  kings  and  adorers  crowned  in  dust: 
And  the  Potomac  rolling  by. 

*  Two  or  three  hundred  steps  to  the  right  and  up  a  general 
incline  and  you  stand  on  the  broad,  high  porch  of  Mount 
Vernon. 

A  great  river  creeps  close  underneath  one  hundred  feet  below. 
You  might  suppose  you  could  throw  a  stone,  standing  on  the 
porch,  into  the  Potomac  as  seen  through  the  trees  that  hug 
the  hillside  and  the  water's  bank  below.  All  was  quiet,  so  quiet. 
Now  and  then  a  barnyard  fowl,  back  in  the  rear,  strained  his 
glossy  neck  and  called  out  loud  and  clear  in  the  eternal  Sabbath 
here;  a  fine  shaggy  dog  wallowed  and  romped  about  the  grassy 
dooryard,  while  far  out  over  the  vast  river  some  black,  wide- 
winged  birds  kept  circling  round  and  round.  I  went  back  and 
around  into  the  barnyard  to  inquire  what  kind  of  birds  they 
were.  I  met  a  very  respectful  but  very  stammery  negro  here. 
He  took  his  cap  in  his  hand,  and  twisting  it  all  about  and 
opening  his  mouth  many  times,  he  finally  said: 

"Do-do-dose  burds  was  created  by  de  Lord  to  p-p-pu-purify  de 
yearth." 

[181] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


"But  what  do  you  call  them,  uncle?  " 

"Tur-tur-tur,"  and  he  twisted  his  cap,  backed  out,  came  for- 
ward, winked  his  eyes,  but  could  not  go  on. 

"Do  you  mean  turkey  buzzards?  " 

"Ya-ya-yas,  sah,  do-do-dose  burds  eats  up  de  carrion  ob  de 
yearth,  sah." 

Down  yonder  is  the  tomb,  the  family  vault.  Back  in  the  rear 
of  the  two  marble  coffins  about  thirty  of  the  Washington  family 
lie.  The  vault  is  locked  up  and  closed  forever.  The  key  has 
been  thrown  into  the  trusty  old  Potomac  to  lie  there  until  the 
last  trump  shall  open  all  tombs. 

Let  no  one  hereafter  complain  of  having  to  live  in  a  garret 
alone  and  without  a  fire.  For  here,  with  all  this  spacious  and 
noble  house  to  select  from,  the  widow  of  Washington  chose  a 
garret  looking  to  the  south  and  out  upon  his  tomb.  This  is 
the  old  tomb  where  he  was  first  laid  to  rest  and  where  the 
fallen  oak  leaves  are  crowding  in  heaps  now  and  almost  filling 
up  the  low,  dark  doorway. 

This  garret  has  but  one  window,  a  small  and  narrow  dormer 
window,  and  is  otherwise  quite  dark.  A  bottom  corner  of  the 
door  is  cut  away  so  that  her  cat  might  come  and  go  at  will. 
And  this  is  the  saddest,  tenderest  sight  at  Mount  Vernon.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  could  see  this  noble  lady  sitting  here,  looking 
out  upon  the  tomb  of  her  mighty  dead,  the  great  river  sweeping 
fast  beyond,  her  heart  full  of  the  memory  of  a  mighty  Nation's 
birth,  waiting,  waiting,  waiting. 

The  thing,  however,  of  the  most  singular  interest  here  is  a 
key  of  the  Bastile,  presented  by  Thomas  Paine  to  Lafayette, 
who  brought  it  to  America  and  presented  it  to  Mount  Vernon. 
It  hangs  here  in  a  glass  case,  massive  and  monstrous.  It  is  a 
hideous,  horrible  thing,  and  has,  perhaps,  more  blood  and 
misery  on  it  than  ony  other  piece  of  iron  or  steel  that  was 
ever  seen. 


[182] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


A  DEAD   CARPENTER 

What  shall  be  said  of  this  soldier  now  dead? 
This  builder,  this  brother,  now  resting  forever? 
What  shall  be  said  of  this  soldier  who  bled 
Through  thirty-three  years  of  silent  endeavor? 

Why,   name   him  thy  hero!     Yea,   write  his 

name  down 

As  something  far  nobler,  as  braver  by  far 
Than  purple-robed  Caesar  of  battle-torn  town 
When  bringing  home  glittering  trophies  of  war. 

Oh,  dark  somber  pines  of  my  starlit  Sierras, 
Be  silent  of  song,  for  the  master  is  mute! 
The  Carpenter,  master,  is  dead  and  lo!  there  is 
Silence  of  song  upon  nature's  draped  lute! 

Brother!     Oh,  manly  dead  brother  of  mine! 

My  brother  by  toil  'mid  the  toiling  and  lowly, 

My  brother  by  sign  of  this  hard  hand,  by  sign 

Of  toil,  and  hard  toil,  that  the  Christ  has  made 

holy: 

Yea,  brother  of  all  the  brave  millions  that 

toil ;    , 

Brave  brother  in  patience  and  silent  endeavor, 
Rest  on,  as  the  harvester  rich  from  his  soil, 
Rest  you,  and  rest  you  for  ever  and  ever. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


QUESTION? 

In  the  days  when  my  mother,  the  Earth,  was 

young, 

And  you  all  were  not,  nor  the  likeness  of  you, 
She  walk'd  in  her  maidenly  prime  among 
The  moonlit  stars  in  the  boundless  blue. 

Then  the  great  sun  lifted  his  shining  shield, 
And  he  flash'd  his  sword  as  the  soldiers  do, 
And  he  moved  like  a  king  full  over  the  field, 
And  he  looked,  and  he  loved  her  brave  and  true. 

And  looking  afar  from  the  ultimate  rim, 
As  he  lay  at  rest  in  a  reach  of  light, 
He  beheld  her  walking  alone  at  night, 
When  the  buttercup  stars  in  their  beauty  swim. 

So  he  rose  up  flush' d  in  his  love,  and  he  ran, 

And  he  reach'd  his  arms,  and  around  her  waist 

He  wound  them  strong  like  a  love-struck  man, 

And  he   kiss'd   and   embraced   her,   brave   and 

chaste. 

So  he  nursed  his  love  like  a  babe  at  its  birth, 
And  he  warm'd  in  his  love  as  the  long  years  ran, 
Then  embraced  her  again,  and  sweet  mother 

Earth 
Was  a  mother  indeed,  and  her  child  was  man. 

The  sun  is  the  sire,  the  mother  is  earth! 
What  more  do  you  know  ?  what  more  do  I  need  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


The  one  he  begot,  and  the  one  gave  birth, 
And  I  love  them  both,  and  let  laugh  at  your 
creed. 

And  who  shall  say  I  am  all  unwise 
In  my  great,   warm   faith?    Time   answers   us 

not: 

The  quick  fool  questions;  but  who  replies? 
The  wise  man  hesitates,  hushed  in  thought. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


BOSTON   TO   THE   BOERS* 


'For  the  right   that   needs   assistance, 
For  the  wrong  that  needs  resistance, 
For  the  glory  in  the  distance, 
For  the  good  that  we  can  do." 

:'For  Freedom's  battles  once  begun, 
Bequeathed  from  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
Though  baffled   oft,   are   ever  won." — BYRON. 


The  Sword  of  Gideon,  Sword  of  God, 
Be  with  ye,  Boers.     Brave  men  of  peace, 
Ye  hewed  the  path,  ye  brake  the  sod, 
Ye  fed  white  flocks  of  fat  increase, 
Where  Saxon  foot  had  never  trod; 
Where  Saxon  foot  unto  this  day 
Had  measured  not,  had  never  known, 
Had  ye  not  bravely  led  the  way 
And  made  such  happy  homes  your  own. 

I  think  God's  house  must  be  such  home. 
The  priestess  Mother,  choristers 
Who  spin  and  weave,  nor  care  to  roam 
Beyond  this  white  God's  house  of  hers, 
But  spinning  sing  and  spin  again. 
I  think  such  silent  shepherd  men 
Most  like  that  few  the  prophet  sings — 
Most  like  that  few  stout  Abram  drew 
Triumphant  o'er  the  slaughtered  kings. 

Defend  God's  house!     Let  fall  the  crook. 
Draw  forth  the  plowshare  from  the  sod, 
And  trust,  as  in  the  Holy  Book, 
The  Sword  of  Gideon  and  of  God; 
God  and  the  right!     Enough  to  fight 
[186] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


A  million  regiments  of  wrong. 
Defend!     Nor  count  what  comes  of  it. 
God's  battle  bides  not  with  the  strong; 
And  pride  must  fall.     Lo!  it  is  writ! 

Great  England's  Gold!  how  stanch  she  fares, 
Fame's  wine-cup  pressing  her  proud  lips — 
Her  checker-board  of  battle  squares 
Rimmed  round  by  steel-built  battle-ships! 
And  yet  meanwhiles  ten  thousand  miles 
She  seeks  ye  out.     Well,  welcome  her! 
Give  her  such  welcome  with  such  will 
As  Boston  gave  in  battle's  whir 
That  red,  dread  day  at  Bunker  Hill. 


*  My  first,  best  friends  were  British.  They  still  are,  and  so 
far  from  finding  fault  that  I  favor  the  Boers,  they  exult  that 
I  dare  for  the  right.  They  are  the  better  class  of  British. 
England's  best  friends  to-day  are  those  who  deplore  this  assault 
on  the  farmer  Boers,  so  like  ourselves  a  century  back.  Could 
any  man  be  found  strong  enough  to  stay  her  hand,  with  sword 
or  pen,  in  this  mad  hour,  that  man  would  deserve  her  lasting 
gratitude.  This  feeling  holds  in  England  as  well  as  here.  Take 
for  example  the  following  from  her  ablest  thinker  to  a  friend 
in  America : — 

"I  rejoice  that  you-  and  others  are  bent  on  showing  that  there 
are  some  among  us  who  think  the  national  honor  is  not  being 
enhanced  by  putting  down  the  weak.  Would  that  age  and  ill 
health  did  not  prevent  me  from  aiding.  No  one  can  deny  that 
at  the  time  of  the  Jameson  Raid  the  aim  of  the  Outlanders  and 
the  raiders  was  to  usurp  the  Transvaal  government,  and  he 
must  be  willfully  blind  who  does  not  see  what  the  Outlanders 
failed  to  do  by  bullets  they  hope  presently  to  do  by  votes,  and 
only  those  who,  while  jealous  of  their  own  independence,  regard 
but  little  the  independence  of  people  who  stand  in  their  way, 
can  fail  to  sympathize  with  the  Boers  in  their  resistance  to 
political  extinction.  It  is  sad  to  see  our  government  backing 
those  whose  avowed  policy  is  expansion,  which,  less  politely 
expressed,  means  aggression,  or  which  there  is  a  still  less  polite 

[187] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


word  readily  guessed.  On  behalf  of  these,  the  big  British 
Empire,  weapon  in  hand,  growls  out  to  the  little  Boer  republic, 
'Do  as  I  bid  you.'  I  have  always  thought  that  nobleness  is 
shown  in  treating  tenderly  those  who  are  relatively  feeble  and 
even  sacrificing  on  their  behalf  something  to  which  there  is  a 
just  claim.  But  if  current  opinion  is  right,  I  must  have  been 
wrong. — HERBERT  SPENCER." 


[188] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


ST.  PAUL'S 

I  see  above  a  crowded  world  a  cross 
Of  gold.     It  grows  like  some  great  cedar  tree 
Upon  a  peak  in  shroud  of  cloud  and  moss, 
Made  bare  and  bronzed  in  far  antiquity. 
Stupendous  pile!     The  grim  Yosemite 
Has  rent  apart  his  granite  wall,  and  thrown 
Its  rugged  front  before  us.     ...     Here  I  see 
The  strides  of  giant  men  in  cryptic  stone, 
And  turn,   and   slow   descend  where   sleep  the 
great  alone. 

The  mighty  captains  have  come  home  to  rest; 
The  brave  returned  to  sleep  amid  the  brave. 
The  sentinel  that  stood  with  steely  breast 
Before  the  fiery  hosts  of  France,  and  gave 
The  battle-cry  that  roll'd,  receding  wave 
On  wave,  the  foeman  flying  back  and  far, 
Is  here.    How  still!    Yet  louder  now  the  grave 
Than  ever-crashing  Belgian  battle-car 
Or  blue  and  battle-shaken  seas  of  Trafalgar. 

The  verger  stalks  in  stiff  importance  o'er 
The  hollow,  deep  and  strange  responding  stones ; 
He  stands  with  lifted  staff  unchid  before 
The  forms  that  once  had  crush'd  or  fashion' d 

thrones, 

And  coldly  points  you  out  the  coffin'd  bones : 
He   stands   composed   where   armies   could  not 

stand 

A  little  time  before.     .     .     .     The  hand  disowns 
The  idle  sword,  and  now  instead  the  grand 
And  golden  cross  makes  sign  and  takes  austere 

command. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


WESTMINSTER   ABBEY 

The  Abbey  broods  beside  the  turbid  Thames; 
Her  mother  heart  is  filled  with  memories ; 
Her  every  niche  is  stored  with  storied  names ; 
They  move  before  me  like  a  mist  of  seas. 
I  am  confused,  and  made  abash'd  by  these 
Most  kingly  souls,  grand,  silent,  and  severe. 
I  am  not  equal,  I  should  sore  displease 
The   living    .     .     .    dead.     I    dare   not   enter; 

drear 
And  stain'd  in  storms  of  grander  days  all  things 

appear. 

I  go!  but  shall  I  not  return  again 
When  art  has  taught  me  gentler,  kindlier  skill, 
And  time  has  given  force  and  strength  of  strain  ? 
I  go!     O  ye  that  dignify  and  fill 
The  chronicles  of  earth!     I  would  instil 
Into  my  soul  somehow  the  atmosphere 
Of  sanctity  that  here  usurps  the  will; 
But  go ;  I  seek  the  tomb  of  one — a  peer 
Of  peers — whose  dust  a  fool  refused  to  cherish 
here. 


[190] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


AT    LORD    BYRON'S    TOMB 

O  Master,  here  I  bow  before  a  shrine; 
Before  the  lordliest  dust  that  ever  yet 
Moved  animate  in  human  form  divine. 
Lo!  dust  indeed  to  dust.     The  mold  is  set 
Above  thee  and  the  ancient  walls  are  wet, 
And  drip  all  day  in  dank  and  silent  gloom, 
As  if  the  cold  gray  stones  could  not  forget 
Thy  great  estate  shrunk  to  this  somber  room, 
But  lean  to  weep  perpetual  tears  above  thy  tomb. 

Before  me  lie  the  oak-crown'd  Annesley  hills, 
Before  me  lifts  the  ancient  Annesley  Hall 
Above  the  mossy  oaks.     ...    A  picture  fills 
With  forms  of  other  days.     A  maiden  tall 
And  fair;  a  fiery  restless  boy,  with  all 
The  force  of  man!  a  steed  that  frets  without; 
A  long  thin  sword  that  rusts  upon  the  wall.  .  .  . 
The  generations  pass.     .     .     .     Behold!  about 
The  ivied  hall  the  fair-hair'd  children  sport  and 
shout. 

A  bay  wreath,  wound  by  Ina  of  the  West, 
Hangs   damp  and  stain' d  upon  the  dark  gray 

wall, 

Above  thy  time-soil'd  tomb  and  tatter'd  crest; 
A  bay  wreath  gathered  by  the  seas  that  call 
To  orient  Cathay,  that  break  and  fall 
On  shell-lined  shores  before  Tahiti's  breeze. 
A  slab,  a  crest,  a  wreath,  and  these  are  all 
Neglected,  tatter'd,  torn;  yet  only  these 
The  world  bestows  for  song  that  rivall'd  singing 

seas. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


A  bay-wreath  wound  by  one  more  truly  brave 
Than  Shastan;  fair  as  thy  eternal  fame, 
She  sat  and  wove  above  the  sunset  wave, 
And   wound   and   sang   thy   measures   and  thy 

name. 

'Twas  wound  by  one,  yet  sent  with  one  acclaim 
By  many,  fair  and  warm  as  flowing  wine, 
And  purely  true,  and  tall  as  growing  flame, 
That  list  and  lean  in  moonlight's  mellow  shine 
To  tropic  tales  of  love  in  other  tongues  than 

thine. 

I  bring  this  idle  reflex  of  thy  task, 
And  my  few  loves,  to  thy  forgotten  tomb; 
I  leave  them  here;  and  here  all  pardon  ask 
Of  thee,  and  patience  ask  of  singers  whom 
Thy  majesty  hath  silenced.     I  resume 
My  staff,  and  now  my  face  is  to  the  West; 
My  feet  are  worn;  the  sun  is  gone,  a  gloom 
Has  mantled  Hucknall,  and  the  minstrel's  zest 
For  fame  is  broken  here,  and  here  he  pleads  for 
rest. 


[192] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


ENGLAND 

Thou,  mother  of  brave  men,  of  nations !  Thou, 
The  white-brow'd  Queen  of  bold  white-bearded 

Sea! 

Thou  wert  of  old  ever  the  same  as  now, 
So  strong,  so  weak,  so  tame,  so  fierce,  so  bound, 

so  free, 

A  contradiction  and  a  mystery; 
Serene,  yet  passionate,  in  ways  thine  own. 
Thy  brave  ships  wind  and  weave  earth's  destiny. 
The  zones  of  earth,  aye,  thou  hast  set  and  sown 
All  seas  in  bed  of  blossom'd  sail,  as  some  great 

garden  blown. 


[193] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


KIEL,   THE    REBEL 

He  died  at  dawn  in  the  land  of  snows; 
A  priest  at  the  left,  a  priest  at  the  right; 
The  doomed  man  praying  for  his  pitiless  foes, 
And  each  priest  holding  a  low  dim  light, 
To  pray  for  the  soul  of  the  dying. 
But  Windsor  Castle  was  far  away; 
And  Windsor  Castle  was  never  so  gay 
With  her  gorgeous  banners  flying! 

The  hero  was  hung  in  the  windy  dawn — 
'Twas   splendidly  done,  the  telegraph  said; 
A  creak  of  the  neck,  then  the  shoulders  drawn; 
A  heave  of  the  breast — a  id  the  man  hung  dead, 
And,  oh !  never  such  valiant  dying ! 
While  Windsor  Castle  was  far  away 
With  its  fops  and  fools  on  that  windy  day, 
And  its  thousand  banners  flying! 


[194] 


MISCELLANEOUS     LINES 


THE   DEFENSE   OF  THE   ALAMO 

Santa  Ana  came  storming,   as  a  storm  might 

come; 
There  was  rumble  of  cannon;  there  was  rattle 

of  blade; 

There  was  cavalry,  infantry,  bugle  and  drum — 
Full    seven    proud    thousand    in    pomp    and 

parade, 

The  chivalry,  flower  of  all  Mexico; 
And  a  gaunt  two  hundred  in  the  Alamo! 

And  thirty  lay  sick,  and  some  were  shot  through ; 
For  the  siege  had  been  bitter,  and  bloody,  and 

long. 

"Surrender,  or  die!" — "Men,  what  will  you  do?" 
And  Travis,  great  Travis,  drew  sword,  quick 

and  strong; 
Drew  a  line  at  his  feet.     .     .     .     Will  you  come? 

Will  you  go? 
/  die  with  my  wounded,  in  the  Alamo." 

Then  Bowie  gasped,  "Guide  me  over  that  line !" 
Then  Crockett,  one  hand  to  the  sick,  one  hand 

to  his  gun, 
Crossed  with  him ;  then  never  a  word  or  a  sign 

Till  all,  sick  or  well,  all,  all,  save  but  one, 
One  man.    Then  a  woman  stopped  praying,  and 

slow 
Across,  to  die  with  the  heroes  of  the  Alamo. 

Then  that  one  coward  fled,  in  the  night,  in  that 

night 
When  all  men  silently  prayed  and  thought 

[195] 


MISCELLANEOUS     LINES 


Of  home;  of  tomorrow;  of  God  and  the  right; 
Till   dawn;  then  Travis   sent  his   single  last 

cannon-shot, 

In  answer  to  insolent  Mexico, 
From  the  old  bell-tower  of  the  Alamo. 

Then  came  Santa  Ana;  a  crescent  of  flame! 
Then  the  red  escalade;  then  the  fight  hand  to 

hand: 
Such  an  unequal  fight  as  never  had  name 

Since    the    Persian    hordes    butchered    that 

doomed  Spartan  band. 
All  day — all  day  and  all  night,  and  the  morning? 

so  slow, 
Through  the  battle  smoke  mantling  the  Alamo. 

Then  silence !    Such  silence !    Two  thousand  lay 

dead 
In  a  crescent  outside!     And  within?     Not  a 

breath 
Save  the  gasp  of  a  woman,  with  gory,  gashed 

head, 
All  alone,  with  her  dead  there,  waiting  for 

death ; 

And  she  but  a  nurse.     Yet  when  shall  we  know 
Another  like  this  of  the  Alamo  ? 

Shout  "Victory,  victory,  victory  ho!" 

I  say,  'tis  not  always  with  the  hosts  that  win; 

I  say  that  the  victory,  high  or  low, 

Is  given  the  hero  who  grapples  with  sin, 

Or  legion  or  single;  just  asking  to  know 

When  duty  fronts  death  in  his  Alamo. 


196] 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


TOMORROW 

O  thou  Tomorrow!     Mystery! 
O  day  that  ever  runs  before ! 
What  hast  thine  hidden  hand  in  store 
For  mine,  Tomorrow,  and  for  me? 
O  thou  Tomorrow !  what  hast  thou 
In  store  to  make  me  bear  the  Now? 

O  day  in  which  we  shall  forget 
The  tangled  troubles  of  today! 
O  day  that  laughs  at  duns,  at  debt! 
O  day  of  promises  to  pay! 
O  shelter  from  all  present  storm! 
O  day  in  which  we  shall  reform! 

O  days  of  all  days  to  reform! 
Convenient  day  of  promises ! 
Hold  back  the  shadow  of  the  storm. 
Let  not  thy  mystery  be  less, 
O  bless'd  Tomorrow!  chiefest  friend, 
But  lead  us  blindfold  to  the  end. 


[197] 


MISCELLANEOUS     LINES 


FINALE 

Ah  me!     I  mind  me  long  agone, 
Once  on  a  savage  snow-bound  height 
We  pigmies  pierced  a  king.     Upon 
His  bare  and  upreared  breast  till  night 
We  rained  red  arrows  and  we  rained 
Hot  lead.     Then  up  the  steep  and  slow 
He  passed;  yet  ever  still  disdained 
To  strike,  or  even  look  below. 
We  found  him,  high  above  the  clouds  next  morn 
And  dead,  in  all  his  silent,  splendid  scorn. 

So  leave  me,  as  the  edge  of  night 
Comes  on  a  little  time  to  pass, 
Or  pray.     For  steep  the  stony  height 
And  torn  by  storm,  and  bare  of  grass 
Or  blossom.     And  when  I  lie  dead 
Oh,  do  not  drag  me  down  once  more. 
For  Jesus'  sake  let  my  poor  head 
Lie  pillowed  with  these  stones.     My  store 
Of  wealth  is  these.     I   earned  them.     Let  me 

keep 
Still  on  alone,  on  mine  own  star-lit  steep. 


MISCELLANEOUS    LINES 


TO   JUANITA 

You  will  come  my  bird,  Bonita? 
Come !     For  I  by  steep  and  stone 
Have  built  such  nest  for  you,  Juanita, 
As  not  eagle  bird  hath  known. 

Rugged !    Rugged  as  Parnassus ! 
Rude,  as  all  roads  I  have  trod — 
Yet  are  steeps  and  stone-strewn  passes 
Smooth  o'er  head,  and  nearest  God. 

Here  black  thunders  of  my  canon 
Shake  its  walls  in  Titan  wars! 
Here  white  sea-born  clouds  companion 
With  such  peaks  as  know  the  stars ! 

Here  madrona,  manzanita — 
Here  the  snarling  chaparral 
House  and  hang  o'er  steeps,  Juanita, 
Where  the  gaunt  wolf  loved  to  dwell! 

Dear,  I  took  these  trackless  masses 
Fresh  from  Him  who  fashioned  them; 
Wrought  in  rock,  and  hewed  fair  passes, 
Flower  set,  as  sets  a  gem. 

Aye,  I  built  in  woe.     God  willed  it; 
Woe  that  passeth  ghosts  of  guilt; 
Yet  I  built  as  His  birds  builded  — 
Builded,  singing  as  I  built. 

All  is  finished!     Roads  of  flowers 
Wait  your  loyal  little  feet. 

[199] 


MISCELLANEOUS     LINES 


All  completed?    Nay,  the  hours 
Till  you  come  are  incomplete. 

Steep  below  me  lies  the  valley, 
Deep  below  me  lies  the  town, 
Where  great  sea-ships  ride  and  rally, 
And  the  world  walks  up  and  down. 

O,  the  sea  of  lights  far  streaming 
When  the  thousand  flags  are  furled — 
When  the  gleaming  bay  lies  dreaming 
As  it  duplicates  the  world ! 

You  will  come,  my  dearest,  truest? 
Come  my  sovereign  queen  of  ten; 
My  blue  skies  will  then  be  bluest; 
My  white  rose  be  whitest  then: 

Then  the  song !     Ah,  then  the  saber 
Flashing  up  the  walls  of  night ! 
Hate  of  wrong  and  love  of  neighbor — 
Rhymes  of  battle  for  the  Right! 
THE  HIGHTS,  CAL. 


[200] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS   SONGS* 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


IN    CLASSIC    SHADES 

Alone  and  sad  I  sat  me  down 
To  rest  on  Rousseau's  narrow  isle 
Below  Geneva.     Mile  on  mile, 
And  set  with  many  a  shining  town, 
Tow'rd  Dent  du  Midi  danced  the  wave 
Beneath  the  moon.     Winds  went  and  came 
And  fanned  the  stars  into  a  flame. 
I  heard  the  far  lake,  dark  and  deep, 
Rise  up  and  talk  as  in  its  sleep ; 
I  heard  the  laughing  waters  lave 
And  lap  against  the  further  shore, 
An  idle  oar,  and  nothing  more 
Save  that  the  isle  had  voice,  and  save 
That  'round  about  its  base  of  stone 
There  plashed  and  flashed  the  foamy  Rhone. 

A  stately  man,  as  black  as  tan, 
Kept  up  a  stern  and  broken  round 
Among  the  strangers  on  the  ground. 
I  named  that  awful  African 
A  second  Hannibal. 

I  gat 

My  elbows  on  the  table ;  sat 

With  chin  in  upturned  palm  to  scan 

His  face,  and  contemplate  the  scene. 

The  moon  rode  by,  a  crowned  queen. 

I  was  alone.     Lo !  not  a  man 

To  speak  my  mother  tongue.     Ah  me! 

How  more  than  all  alone  can  be 

A  man  in  crowds !     Across  the  isle 

My  Hannibal  strode  on.     The  while 

[203] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


Diminished  Rousseau  sat  his  throne 
Of  books,  unnoticed  and  unknown. 

This  strange,  strong  man,  with  face  austere, 
At  last  drew  near.     He  bowed;  he  spake 
In  unknown  tongues.     I  could  but  shake 
My  head.     Then  half  achill  with  fear, 
Arose,  and  sought  another  place. 
Again  I  mused.    The  kings  of  thought 
Came  by,  and  on  that  storied  spot 
I  lifted  up  a  tearful  face. 
The  star-set  Alps  they  sang  a  tune 
Unheard  by  any  soul  save  mine. 
Mont  Blanc,  as  lone  and  as  divine 
And  white,  seemed  mated  to  the  moon. 
The  past  was  mine;   strong-voiced  and  vast- — 
Stern  Calvin,  strange  Voltaire,  and  Tell, 
And  two  whose  names  are  known  too  well 
To  name,  in  grand  procession  passed. 

And  yet  again  came  Hannibal; 
King-like  he  came,  and  drawing  near, 
I  saw  his  brow  was  now  severe 
And  resolute. 

In  tongue  unknown 
Again  he  spake.     I  was  alone, 
Was  all  unarmed;  was  worn  and  sad; 
But  now,  at  last,  my  spirit  had 
Its  old  assertion. 

I  arose, 

As  startled  from  a  dull  repose; 
With  gathered  strength  I  raised  a  hand 
And  cried,  "I  do  not  understand." 

[204] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


His  black  face  brightened  as  I  spake; 
He  bowed;  he  wagged  his  woolly  head; 
He  showed  his  shining  teeth,  and  said, 
"Sah,  if  you  please,  dose  tables  heah 
Am  consecrate  to  lager  beer; 
And,  sah,  what  will  you  have  to  take?" 

Not  that  I  loved  that  colored  cuss  — 
Nay  !  he  had  awed  me  all  too  much  — 
But  I  sprang  forth,  and  with  a  clutch 
I  grasped  his  hand,  and  holding  thus, 
Cried,  "Bring  my  country's  drink  for  two!" 
For  oh!  that  speech  of  Saxon  sound 
To  me  was  as  a  fountain  found 
In  wastes,  and  thrilled  me  through  and  through, 


On  Rousseau's  isle,  in  Rousseau's  shade, 
Two  pink  and  spicy  drinks  were  made, 
In  classic  shades,  on  classic  ground, 
We  stirred  two  cocktails  round  and  round. 


*  The  dower  of  song  is,  to  my  mind,  a  sacred  gift.  The 
prophet  and  the  seer  should  rise  above  the  levities  of  this  life. 
And  so  it  is  that  I  make  humble  apology  for  now  gathering  up 
from  recitation  books  these  next  half  dozen  pieces.  The  only 
excuse  for  doing  it  is  their  refusal  to  die;  even  under  the 
mutilations  of  the  compilers  of  "choice  selections." 


[205] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


THAT    GENTLE    MAN    FROM    BOSTON 

AN  IDYL  OF  OREGON 

Two  noble  brothers  loved  a  fair 
Young  lady,  rich  and  good  to  see; 
And  oh,  her  black  abundant  hair! 
And  oh,  her  wondrous  witchery! 
Her  father  kept  a  cattle  farm, 
These  brothers  kept  her  safe  from  harm: 

From  harm  of  cattle  on  the  hill; 
From  thick-necked  bulls  loud  bellowing 
The  livelong  morning,  long  and  shrill, 
And  lashing  sides  like  anything! 
From  roaring  bulls  that  tossed  the  sand 
And  pawed  the  lilies  of  the  land. 

There  came  a  third  young  man.  He  came 
From  far  and  famous  Boston  town. 
He  was  not  handsome,  was  not  "game," 
But  he  could  "cook  a  goose"  as  brown 
As  any  man  that  set  foot  on 
The  mist  kissed  shores  of  Oregon. 

This  Boston  man  he  taught  the  school, 
Taught  gentleness  and  love  alway, 
Said  love  and  kindness,  as  a  rule, 
Would  ultimately  "make  it  pay." 
He  was  so  gentle,  kind,  that  he 
Could  make  a  noun  and  verb  agree. 

So  when  one  day  these  brothers  grew 
All  jealous  and  did  strip  to  fight, 
He  gently  stood  between  the  two 

[206] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


And  meekly  told  them  'twas  not  right. 
"I  have  a  higher,  better  plan," 
Outspake  this  gentle  Boston  man. 

"My  plan  is  this :     Forget  this  fray 
About  that  lily  hand  of  hers; 
Go  take  your  guns  and  hunt  all  day 
High  up  yon  lofty  hill  of  firs, 
And  while  you  hunt,  my  ruffled  doves, 
Why,  I  will  learn  which  one  she  loves." 

The  brothers  sat  the  windy  hill, 
Their  hair  shone  yellow,  like  spun  gold, 
Their  rifles  crossed  their  laps,  but  still 
They  sat  and  sighed  and  shook  with  cold. 
Their  hearts  lay  bleeding  far  below; 
Above  them  gleamed  white  peaks  of  snow. 

Their  hounds  lay  crouching  slim  and  neat, 
A  spotted  circle  in  the  grass. 
The  valley  lay  beneath  their  feet; 
They  heard  the  wide-winged  eagles  pass. 
Two  eagles  cleft  the  clouds  above; 
Yet  what  could  they  but  sigh  and  love? 

"If  I  could  die,"  the  elder  sighed, 
"My  dear  young  brother  here  might  wed." 
"Oh,  would  to  heaven  I  had  died!" 
The  younger  sighed  with  bended  head. 
Then  each  looked  each  full  in  the  face 
And  each  sprang  up  and  stood  in  place. 

"If  I  could  die"— the  elder  spake  — 
"Die  by  your  hand,  the  world  would  say 
'Twas  accident — ;  and  for  her  sake, 
[207] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


Dear  brother,  be  it  so,  I  pray." 
"Not  that!"  the  younger  nobly  said; 
Then  tossed  his  gun  and  turned  his  head. 

And  fifty  paces  back  he  paced! 
And  as  he  paced  he  drew  the  ball; 
Then  sudden  stopped  and  wheeled  and  faced 
His  brother  to  the  death  and  fall! 
Two  shots  rang  wild  upon  the  air! 
But  lo !  the  two  stood  harmless  there ! 

Two  eagles  poised  high  in  the  air; 
Far,  far  below  the  bellowing 
Of  bullocks  ceased,  and  everywhere 
Vast  silence  sat  all  questioning. 
The  spotted  hounds  ran  circling  round, 
Their  red,  wet  noses  to  the  ground. 

And  now  each  brother  came  to  know 
That  each  had  drawn  the  deadly  ball ; 
And  for  that  fair  girl  far  below 
Had  sought  in  vain  to  silent  fall. 
And  then  the  two  did  gladly  "shake," 
And  thus  the  elder  gravely  spake: 

"Now  let  us  run  right  hastily 
And  tell  the  kind  schoolmaster  all! 
Yea !  yea !  and  if  she  choose  not  me, 
But  all  on  you  her  favors  fall, 
This  valiant  scene,  till  all  life  ends, 
Dear  brother,  binds  us  best  of  friends. 

The  hounds  sped  down,  a  spotted  line, 
The  bulls  in  tall  abundant  grass 
Shook  back  their  horns  from  bloom  and  vine, 

[208] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


And  trumpeted  to  see  them  pass — 
They  loved  so  good,  they  loved  so  true, 
These  brothers  scarce  knew  what  to  do. 

They  sought  the  kind  schoolmaster  out 
As  swift  as  sweeps  the  light  of  morn — 
They  could  but  love,  they .  could  not  doubt 
This  man  so  gentle,  "in  a  horn," 
They  cried:  "Now  whose  the  lily  hand — 
That  lady's  of  this  emer'ld  land?" 

They  bowed  before  that  big-nosed  man, 
That  long-nosed  man  from  Boston  town; 
They  talked  as  only  lovers  can, 
They  talked,  but  he  would  only  frown; 
And  still  they  talked  and  still  they  plead ; 
It  was  as  pleading  with  the  dead. 

At  last  this  Boston  man  did  speak — 
"Her  father  has  a  thousand  ceows, 
An  hundred  bulls,  all  fat  and  sleek; 
He  also  had  this  ample  heouse." 
The  brothers'  eyes  stuck  out  thereat 
So  far  you  might  have  hung  your  hat, 

"I  liked  the  looks  of  this  big  heouse — 
My  lovely  boys,  won't  you  come  in? 
Her  father  had  a  thousand  ceows — 
He  also  had  a  heap  o'  tin. 
The  guirl  ?    Oh  yes,  the  guirl,  you  see — 
The  guirl,  this  morning  married  me." 


[209] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


WILLIAM    BROWN    OF    OREGON 

They  called  him  Bill,  the  hired  man, 
But  she,  her  name  was  Mary  Jane, 
The  squire's  daughter;  and  to  reign 
The  belle  from  Ber-she-be  to  Dan 
Her  little  game.     How  lovers  rash 
Got  mittens  at  the  spelling  school! 
How  many  a  mute,  inglorious  fool 
Wrote  rhymes  and  sighed  and  dyed — mustache? 

This  hired  man  had  loved  her  long, 
Had  loved  her  best  and  first  and  last, 
Her  very  garments  as  she  passed 
For  him  had  symphony  and  song. 
So  when  one  day  with  flirt  and  frown 
She  called  him  "Bill,"  he  raised  his  head, 
He  caught  her  eye  and  faltering  said, 
"I  love  you;  and  my  name  is  Brown," 

She  fairly  waltzed  with  rage;  she  wept; 
You  would  have  thought  the  house  on  fire. 
She  told  her  sire,  the  portly  squire, 
Then  smelt  her  smelling-salts  and  slept. 
Poor  William  did  what  could  be  done; 
He  swung  a  pistol  on  each  hip, 
He  gathered  up  a  great  ox-whip 
And  drove  right  for  the  setting  sun. 

\ 

He  crossed  the  big  backbone  of  earth, 
He  saw  the  snowy  mountains  rolled 
Like  mighty  billows;  saw  the  gold 
Of  great  big  sunsets;  felt  the  birth 
Of  sudden  dawn  upon  the  plain; 
And  every  night  did  William  Brown 
[210] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


Eat  pork  and  beans  and  then  lie  down 
And  dream  sweet  dreams  of  Mary  Jane. 

Her  lovers  passed.    Wolves  hunt  in  packs, 
They  sought  for  bigger  game;  somehow 
They  seemed  to  see  about  her  brow 
The  forky  signs  of  turkey  tracks. 
The  teter-board  of  life  goes  up, 
The  teter-board  of  life  goes  down, 
The  sweetest  face  must  learn  to  frown; 
The  biggest  dog  has  been  a  pup. 

O  maidens !  pluck  not  at  the  air ; 
The  sweetest  flowers  I  have  found 
Grow  rather  close  unto  the  ground 
And  highest  places  are  most  bare. 
Why,  you  had  better  win  the  grace 
Of  one  poor  cussed  Af-ri-can 
Than  win  the  eyes  of  every  man 
In  love  alone  with  his  own  face. 

At  last  she  nursed  her  true  desire. 
She  sighed,  she  wept  for  William  Brown. 
She  watched  the  splendid  sun  go  down 
Like  some  great  sailing  ship  on  fire, 
Then  rose  and  checked  her  trunks  right  on; 
And  in  the  cars  she  lunched  and  lunched, 
And  had  her  ticket  punched  and  punched, 
Until  she  came  to  Oregon. 

She  reached  the  limit  of  the  lines, 
She  wore  blue  specs  upon  her  nose, 
Wore  rather  short  and  manly  clothes, 
And  so  set  out  to  reach  the  mines. 
Her  right  hand  held  a  Testament, 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


Her  pocket  held  a  parasol, 

And  thus  equipped  right  on  she  went, 

Went   water-proof  and  water-fall. 

She  saw  a  miner  gazing  down, 
Slow  stirring  something  with  a  spoon; 
"O,  tell  me  true  and  tell  me  soon, 
What  has  become  of  William  Brown?" 
He  looked  askance  beneath  her  specs, 
Then  stirred  his  cocktail  round  and  round, 
Then  raised  his  head  and  sighed  profound, 
And  said,  "He's  handed  in  his  checks." 

Then  care  fed  on  her  damaged  cheek, 
And  she  grew  faint,  did  Mary  Jane, 
And  smelt  her  smelling  salts  in  vain, 
Yet  wandered  on,  way-worn  and  weak. 
At  last  upon  a  hill  alone; 
She  came,  and  there  she  sat  her  down; 
For  on  that  hill  there  stood  a  stone, 
And,  lo !  that  stone  read,  "William  Brown." 

"O  William  Brown!  O  William  Brown! 
And  here  you  rest  at  last,"  she  said, 
"With  this  lone  stone  above  your  head, 
And  forty  miles  from  any  town ! 
I  will  plant  cypress  trees,  I  will, 
And  I  will  build  a  fence  around, 
And  I  will  fertilize  the  ground 
With  tears  enough  to  turn  a  mill." 

She  went  and  got  a  hired  man, 
She  brought  him  forty  miles  from  town, 
And  in  the  tall  grass  squatted  down 
And  bade  him  build  as  she  should  plan. 

[212] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


But  cruel  cowboys  with  their  bands 
They  saw,  and  hurriedly  they  ran 
And  told  a  bearded  cattle  man 
Somebody  builded  on  his  lands. 

He  took  his  rifle  from  the  rack, 
He  girt  himself  in  battle  pelt, 
He  stuck  two  pistols  in  his  belt, 
And  mounting  on  his  horse's  back, 
He  plunged  ahead.     But  when  they  shewed 
A  woman  fair,  about  his  eyes 
He  pulled  his  hat,  and  he  likewise 
Pulled  at  his  beard,  and  chewed  and  chewed. 

At  last  he  gat  him  down  and  spake: 
"O  lady,  dear,  what  do  you  here?" 
"I  build  a  tomb  unto  my  dear, 
I  plant  sweet  flowers  for  his  sake." 
The  bearded  man  threw  his  two  hands 
Above  his  head,  then  brought  them  down 
And  cried,  "O,  I  am  William  Brown, 

And  this  the  corner-stone  of  my  lands!" 
****** 

****** 
****** 

And  the  Prince  married  her  and  they  lived  happy 
ever  after. 


[213] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


HORACE    GREELEY'S    DRIVE 

The  old  stage-drivers  of  the  brave  old  days ! 
The  old  stage-drivers  with  their  dash  and  trust! 
These  old  stage-drivers  they  have  gone  their  ways 
But  their  deeds  live  on,  though  their  bones  are 

dust; 

And  many  brave  tales  are  told  and  retold 
Of  these  daring  men  in  the  days  of  old : 

Of  honest  Hank  Monk  and  his  Tally-Ho, 
When  he  took  good  Horace  in  his  stage  to  climb 
The  high  Sierras  with  their  peaks  of  snow 
And  'cross  to  Nevada,  "and  come  in  on  time ;" 
But  the  canyon  below  was  so  deep — oh !  so  deep — 
And  the  summit  above  was  so  steep — oh!   so 
steep ! 

The  horses  were  foaming.    The  summit  ahead 
Seemed  as  far  as  the  stars  on  a  still,  clear  night. 
And  steeper  and  steeper  the  narrow  route  led 
Till  up  to  the  peaks  of  perpetual    white; 
But  faithful  Hank  Monk,  with  his  face  to  the 

snow, 
Sat  silent  and  stern  on  his  Tally-Ho! 

Sat  steady  and  still,  sat  faithful  and  true 
To  the  great,  good  man  in  his  charge  that  day  ; 
Sat  vowing  the  man  and  the  mail  should  "go 

through 

On  time"  though  he  bursted  both  brace  and  stay ; 
Sat  silently  vowing,  in  face  of  the  snow, 
He'd  "get  in  on  time"  with  his  Tally-Ho ! 


[214] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


But  the  way  was  so  steep  and  so  slow — oh !  so 

slow! 

T  was  silver  below,  and  the  bright  silver  peak 
Was  silver  above  in  its  beauty  and  glow. 
An   eagle   swooped  by,   Hank   saw   its   hooked 

beak; 

When,  sudden  out-popping  a  head  snowy  white — 
"Mr.  Monk,  I  must  lecture  in  Nevada  tonight!" 

With  just  one  thought  that  the  mail  must  go 

through ; 

With  just  one  word  to  the  great,  good  man — 
But  weary — so  weary — the  creaking  stage  drew 
As  only  a  weary  old  creaking  stage  can — 
When  again  shot  the  head;  came  shrieking  out- 
right : 
"Mr.  Monk,  I  MUST  lecture  in  Nevada  tonight !" 

Just  then  came  the  summit !    And  the  far  world 

below, 
It  was  Hank  Monk's  world.     But  he  no  word 

spake ; 
He  pushed  back  his  hat  to  that  fierce  peak  of 

snow! 

He  threw  out  his  foot  to  the  eagle  and  brake ! 
He  threw  out  his  silk !    He  threw  out  his  reins ! 
And  the  great  wheels  reeled  as  if  reeling  snow 

skeins ! 

The  eagle  was  lost  in  his  crag  up  above! 
The  horses  flew  swift  as  the  swift  light  of  morn ! 
The  mail  must  go  through  with  its  message  of 

love, 
The  miners  were  waiting  his  bright  bugle  horn. 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


The  man  must  go  through!    And  Monk  made 

a  vow 
As  he  never  had  failed,  why,  he  wouldn't  fail 

now! 

How  his  stage  spun  the  pines  like  a  far  spider's 
web! 

It  was  spider  and  fly  in  the  heavens  up  there! 

And  the  clanging  of  hoofs  made  the  blood  flow 
and  ebb, 

For  'twas  death  in  the  breadth  of  a  wheel  or  a 
hair. 

Once  more  popped  the  head,  and  the  piping 
voice  cried: 

"Mr.  Monk!  Mr.  Monk!"  But  no  Monk  re- 
plied! 

Then  the  great  stage  it  swung,  as  if  swung 

from  the  sky; 
Then  it  dipped  like  a  ship  in  the  deep  jaws  of 

death ; 
Then  the  good  man  he  gasped  as  men  gasping 

for  breath, 

When  they  deem  it  is  coming  their  hour  to  die. 
And  again  shot  the  head,  like  a  battering  ram, 
And  the  face  it  was  red,  and  the  words  they 

were  hot: 
"Mr.  Monk!  Mr.  Monk!    I  don't  care  a  (mill?) 

dam. 
Whether  I  lecture  in  Nevada  or  not !" 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


THAT   FAITHFUL   WIFE    OF   IDAHO 

Huge  silver  snow-peaks,  white  as  wool, 
Huge,  sleek,  fat  steers  knee  deep  in  grass, 
And  belly  deep,  and  belly  full, 
Their  flower  beds  one  fragrant  mass 
Of  flowers,  grass  tall-born  and  grand, 
Where  flowers  chase  the  flying  snow! 
Oh,  high  held  land  in  God's  right  hand, 
Delicious,    dreamful   Idaho ! 

We  rode  the  rolling  cow-sown  hills, 
That  bearded  cattle  man  and  I ; 
Below  us  laughed  the  blossomed  rills, 
Above  the  dappled  clouds  blew  by. 
We  talked.    The  topic?    Guess.     Why,  sir, 
Three-fourths  of  all  men's  time  they  keep 
To  talk,  to  think,  to  be  of  HER  ; 
The  other  fourth  they  give  to  sleep. 

To  learn  what  he  might  know,  or  how, 
I  laughed  all  constancy  to  scorn. 
"Behold  yon  happy,  changeful  cow! 
Behold  this  day,  all  storm  at  morn, 
Yet  now  'tis  changed  by  cloud  and  sun, 
Yea,  all  things  change — the  heart,  the  head, 
Behold  on  earth  there  is  not  or»e 
That  changeth  not  in  love,"  I  said. 

He  drew  a  glass,  as  if  to  scan 
The  steeps  for  steers ;  raised  it  and  sighed. 
He  craned  his  neck,  this  cattle  man, 
Then  drove  the  cork  home  and  replied: 
"For  twenty  years  (forgive  these  tears), 
For  twenty  years  no  word  of  strife — 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


I  have  not  known  for  twenty  years 
One  folly  from  my  faithful  wife." 

I  looked  that  tarn  man  in  the  face — 
That  dark-browed,  bearded  cattle  man. 
He  pulled  his  beard,  then  dropped  in  place 
A  broad  right  hand,  all  scarred  and  tan, 
And  toyed  with  something  shining  there 
Above  his  holster,  bright  and  small. 
I  was  convinced.    I  did  not  care 
To  agitate  his  mind  at  all. 

But  rest  I  could  not.    Know  I  must 
The  story  of  my  stalwart  guide ; 
His  dauntless  love,  enduring  trust; 
His  blessed  and  most  wondrous  bride. 
I  wondered,  marveled,  marveled  much; 
Was  she  of  Western  growth?     Was  she 
Of  Saxon  blood,  that  wife  with  such 
Eternal  truth  and  constancy? 

I  could  not  rest  until  I  knew — 
"Now  twenty  years,  my  man,"  I  said, 
"Is  a  long  time."     He  turned,  he  drew 
A  pistol  forth,  also  a  sigh. 
"  'Tis  twenty  years  or  more,"  sighed  he. 
"Nay,  nay,  my  honest  man,  I  vow 
I  do  not  doubt  that  this  may  be; 
But  tell,  oh!  tell  me  truly  how?" 

"  'Twould  make  a  poem,  pure  and  grand ; 
All  time  should  note  it  near  and  far; 
And  thy  fair,  virgin,  gold-sown  land 
Should  stand  out  like  some  winter  star. 
America  should  heed.    And  then 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


The  doubtful  French  beyond  the  sea — 
'Twould  make  them  truer,  nobler  men 
To  know  how  this  might  truly  be." 

"  'Tis  twenty  years  or  more,  urged  he ; 
"Nay,  that  I  know,  good  guide  of  mine; 
But  lead  me  where  this  wife  may  be, 
And  I  a  pilgrim  at  a  shrine, 
And  kneeling  as  a  pilgrim  true" — 
He,  leaning,  shouted  loud  and  clear: 
"I  cannot  show  my  wife  to  you; 
She's  dead  this  more  than  twenty  year." 


[219] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


SARATOGA   AND   THE   PSALMIST 

These   famous  waters  smell  like — well, 
Those  Saratoga  waters  may 
Taste  just  a  little  of  the  day 
Of  judgment;  and  the  sulphur  smell 
Suggests,  along  with  other  things, 
A  climate  rather  warm  for  springs. 

But  restful  as  a  twilight  song, 
The  land  where  every  lover  hath 
A  spring,  and  every  spring  a  path 
To  lead  love  pleasantly  along. 
Oh,  there  be  waters,  not  of  springs — 
The  waters  wise  King  David  sings. 

Sweet  is  the  bread  that  lovers  eat 
In  secret,  sang  on  harp  of  gold, 
Jerusalem's  high  king  of  old. 
"The  stolen  waters  they  are  sweet !" 
Oh,   dear,   delicious   piracies 
Of  kisses  upon  love's  high  seas! 

The  old  traditions  of  our  race 
Repeat  for  aye  and  still  repeat; 
The  stolen  waters  still  are  sweet 
As  when  King  David  sat  in  place, 
All  purple  robed  and  crowned  in  gold, 
And  sang  his  holy  psalms  of  old. 

Oh,  to  escape  the  searching  sun; 
To  seek  these  waters  over  sweet ; 
To  see  her  dip  her  dimpled  feet 
Where  these  delicious  waters  run — 

[220] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


To  dip  her  feet,  nor  slip  nor  fall, 
Nor  stain  her  garment's  hem  at  all : 

Nor  soil  the  whiteness  of  her  feet, 
Nor  stain  her  whitest  garment's  hem — 
Oh,  singer  of  Jerusalem, 
You  sang  so  sweet,  so  wisely  sweet! 
Shake  hands!  shake  hands!     I  guess  you  knew 
For  all  your  psalms,  a  thing  or  two. 


[221] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


A    TURKEY    HUNT    IN    TEXAS 

(AS  TOLD  AT  DINNER.) 

"No,  sir ;  no  turkey  for  me,  sir.     But  soft,  place 

it  there, 
Lest  friends  may  make  question  and  strangers 

may  stare. 
Ah,  the  thought  of  that  hunt  in  the  canon,  the 

blood — 

Nay,  gently,  please,  gently!     You  open  a  flood 
Of  memories,  memories  melting  me  so 
That  I  rise  in  my  place  and — excuse  me — I  go. 
No?    You  must  have  the  story?    And  you,  lady 

fair? 
And  you,  and  you  all?     Why,  it's  blood  and 

despair ; 

And  'twere  not  kind  in  me,  not  manly  or  wise 
To  bring  tears  at  such  time  to  such  beautiful 

eyes. 

I  remember  me  now  the  last  time  I  told 
This  story  a  Persian  in  diamonds  and  gold 
Sat  next  to  good  Gladstone,  there  was  Wales  to 

the  right, 
Then  a  Duke,  then  an  Earl,  and  such  ladies  in 

white ! 
But  I   stopped,  sudden  stopped,  lest  the  story 

might  start 

The  blood  freezing  back  to  each  feminine  heart. 
But  they  all  said,  "The  story!"  just  as  you  all 

have  said, 
And  the  great  Persian  monarch  he  nodded  his 

head 

[  222  ] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


Till  his  diamond-decked  feathers  fell,  glittered 

and  rose, 
Then  nodded  almost  to  his  Ishmaelite  nose. 

The  story !     Ah,  pardon !     Twas  high  Christ- 
mas tide 
And  just  beef  and  beans;  yet  the  land,  far  and 

wide, 

Was  alive  with  such  turkeys  of  silver  and  gold, 
As  never  men  born  to  the  north  may  behold. 
And  Apaches?     Aye,  Apaches,   and  they  took 

this  game 
In  a  pen,  tolled  it  in.     Might  not  we  do  the 

same? 

So  two  of  us  started,  strewing  corn,  Indian  corn, 
Tow'rd  a  great  granite  gorge  with  the  first  flush 

of  morn; 
Started  gay,  laughing  back  from  the  broad  mesa's 

breast, 
At  the  bravest  of  men,  who  but  warned  for  the 

best. 

We  built  a  great  pen  from  the  sweet  cedar 

wood 
Tumbled  down  from  a  crown  where  the  sentry 

stars  stood. 
Scarce  done,  when  the  turkeys  in  line — such  a 

sight ! 
Picking  corn  from  the  sand,  russet  gold,  silver 

white, 
And  so  fat  that  they  scarcely  could  waddle  or 

hobble. 
And   'twas   "Queek,   tukee,   queek,"   and   'twas, 

"gobble  and  gobble!" 

[223] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


And  their  great,  full  crops  they  did  wabble  and 

wabble 
As  their  bright,  high  heads  they  did  bob,  bow 

and  bobble, 
Down,  up,  through  the  trench,  crowding  up  in 

the  pen. 
Now,  quick,  block  the  trench!    Then  the  mules 

and  the  men ! 

Springing  forth  from  our  cove,  guns  leaned 

to  a  rock, 
How  we  laughed!    What  a  feast!    We  had  got 

the  whole  flock. 
How  we  worked  till  the  trench  was  all  blocked 

close  and  tight, 
For  we  hungered,  and,  too,  the  near  coming  of 

night, 
Then  the  thought  of  our  welcome.     The  news? 

We  could  hear 

Already,  we  fancied,  the  great  hearty  cheer 
As  we  rushed  into  camp  and  exultingly  told 
Of  the  mule  loads  of  turkeys  in  silver  and  gold. 
Then  we  turned  for  our  guns.     Our  guns?     In 

their  place 
Ten  Apaches  stood  there,  and  five  guns  in  each 

face. 

And  we  stood!  we  stood  straight  and  stood 

strong,  track  solid  to  track. 
What,  turn,  try  to  fly  and  be  shot  in  the  back? 
No !    We  threw  hats  in  the  air.    We  should  not 

need  them  more. 
And   yelled!     Yelled   as   never   yelled   man   or 

Comanche   before. 

[224] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


We  dared  them,  defied  them,  right  there  in  their 

lair. 
Why,  we  leaned  to  their  guns  in  our  splendid 

despair. 
What!  spared  us  for  bravery,  because  we  dared 

death? 
You  know  the  tale?    Tell  it,  and  spare  me  my 

breath. 
No,  sir.     They  killed  us,  killed  us  both,  there 

and  then, 
And  then  nailed  our  scalps  to  that  turkey  pen. 


[225] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


USLAND* 

And  where  lies  Usland,  Land  of  Us  ? 

Where  Freedom  lives,  there  Usland  lies! 
Fling  down  that  map  and  measure  thus 

Or  argent  seas  or  sapphire  skies : 
To  north,  the  North  Pole;  south,  as  far 

As  ever  eagle  cleaved  his  way; 
To  east,  the  blazing  morning  star, 

And  west!     West  to  the  Judgment  Day! 

No  borrowed  lion,  rampt  in  gold ; 

No  bleeding  Erin,  plaintive  strains ; 
No  starving  millions,  mute  and  cold; 

No  plundered  India,  prone  in  chains; 
No  peaceful  farmer,  forced  to  fly 

Or  draw  his  plowshare  from  the  sod, 
And  fighting,  one  to  fifty,  die 

For  freedom,  fireside,  and  God. 

Fear  not,  brave,  patient,  free-born  Boers, 

Great  Usland's  heart  is  yours  today. 
Aye,  England's  heart  of  hearts  is  yours, 

Whatever  scheming  men  may  say. 
Her  scheming  men  have  mines  to  sell, 

And  we?    Why,  meat  and  corn  and  wheat. 
But,  Boers,  all  brave  hearts  wish  you  well; 

For  England's  triumph  means  defeat. 

*  It  is  a  waste  of  ink  and  energy  to  write  "United  States  of 
America"  always.  All  our  property  is  marked  US.  Then  why 
not  Usland?  And  why  should  we  always  say  American?  The 
Canadian,  the  Mexican,  the  Brazilian,  and  so  on,  are  as  entirely 
entitled  to  the  name  "American"  as  we.  Why  not  say  Usman, 
as  Frenchman,  German,  and  so  on? 

[226] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


THAT    USSIAN    OF    USLAND 

"I  am  an  Ussian  true,"  he  said; 

"Keep  off  the  grass  there,  Mister  Bull ! 
For  if  you  don't,  I'll  bang  your  head 

And   bang  your  belly-full. 

"Now  mark,  my  burly  jingo-man, 
So  prone  to  muss  and  fuss  and  cuss, 

I  am  an  Ussian,  spick  and  span, 
From  out  the  land  of  Us!" 

The  stout  man  smole  a  frosty  smile  — 
"An  Ussian!    Russian,  Rusk,  or  Russ?" 

"No,  no!  an  Ussian,  every  while; 
My  land  the  land  of  Us." 

"Aw !    Usland,  Outland  ?  or,  maybe, 

Some  Venezuela  I'd  forgot. 
Hand  out  your  map  and  let  me  see 

Where  Usland  is,  and  what." 

The  Yankman  leaned  and  spread  his  map 
And  shewed  the  land  of  Us  and  shewed, 

Then  eyed  and  eyed  that  paunchy  chap, 
And  pulled  his  chin  and  chewed. 

"What  do  you  want?"  A  face  grew  red, 
And  red  chop  whiskers  redder  grew. 

"I  want  the  earth,"  the  Ussian  said, 
"And  all  Alaska  too. 

"My  stars  swim  up  yon  seas  of  blue; 
No  Shind  am  I,  Boer,  Turk  or  Russ. 

[227] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


I  am  an  Ussian — Ussian  true; 
My  land  the  land  of  Us. 

"My  triple  North  Star  lights  me  on, 
My  Southern  Cross  leads  ever  thus ; 

My  sun  scarce  sets  till  burst  of  dawn. 
Hands  off  the  land  of  Us!" 


[228] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


SAYS   PLATO 

Says  Plato,  "Once  in  Greece  the  gods 
Plucked  grapes,  pressed  wine,  and  reveled  deep 
And  drowsed  below  their  popy-pods, 
And  lay  full  length  the  hills  asleep. 
Then,  waking,  one  said,  'Overmuch 
We  toil:  come,  let  us  rise  and  touch 
Red  clay,  and  shape  it  into  man, 
That  he  may  build  as  we  shall  plan !' 
And  so  they  shaped  man,  all  complete, 
Self-procreative,   satisfied ; 
Two  heads,  four  hands,  four  feet. 

"And  then  the  gods  slept,  heedless,  long; 
But  waking  suddenly  one  day, 
They  heard  their  valley  ring  with  song 
And  saw  man  reveling  as  they. 
Enraged,  they  drew  their  swords  and  said, 
'Bow  down!  bend  down!' — but  man  replied 
Defiant,  fearless,  everywhere 
His  four  fists  shaking  in  the  air. 
The  gods  descending  cleft  in  twain 
Each  man;  then  wiped  their  swords  on  grapes; 
And  let  confusion  reign. 

"And  such  confusion !  each  half  ran, 
Ran  here,  ran  there;  or  weep  or  laugh 
Or  what  he  would,  each  helpless  man 
Ran  hunting  for  his  other  half. 
And  from  that  day,  thenceforth  the  grapes 
Bore  blood  and  flame,  and  restless  shapes 
Of  hewn-down,  helpless  halves  of  men, 
Ran  searching  ever;  crazed,  as  when 

[229] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


First  hewn  in  twain,  they  grasped,  let  go, 
Then  grasped  again;  but  rarely  found 
That  lost  half  once  loved  so." 

Now,  right  or  wrong,  or  false  or  true, 
'Tis  Plato's  tale  of  bitter  sweet; 
But  I  know  well  and  well  know  you 
The  quest  keeps  on  at  fever  heat. 
Let  Love,  then,  wisely  sit  and  wait ! 
The  world  is  round;  sit  by  the  gate, 
Like  blind   Belisarius:   being  blind, 
Love  should  not  search ;  Love  shall  not  find 
By  searching.     Brass  is  so  like  gold, 
How  shall  this  blind  Love  know  new  brass 
From  pure  soft  gold  of  old? 


[230 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


WELCOME     TO     THE     GREAT     AMERICAN 
OCEAN 

Aloha!    Wahwah!     Quelle  raison? 

Ship  ahoy!     What  sails  are  these? 
What  tuneful  Orpheus,  what  Jason 

Courts  Colchis  and  her  Golden  Fleece? 
For  never  since  the  oak-keeled  Argo 
Such  sweet  chords,  such  kingly  cargo.* 

Never  since  the  mad  Magellan 
Dared  the  Philippines  and  died, 

Did  these  boundless  billows  swell  in 
Such  surprised  and  saucy  pride. 

Are  they  laughing,  chaffing  at  you? 

Waiting  but  to  bang  and  bat  you? 

Doughty  Vikings,  dauntless  Norsemen, 
White-maned  stallions  plunge  and  fret; 

Ride  them,  ride  them,  daring  horsemen, 
Ride  or  perish  in the  wet ! 

Galleons,    doubloons   galore 

Paved  of  old  this  proud  sea  floor ! 

Carabellos,  caballeros ! 

Where  your  boasted  Totus  Munda? 
Chile  came  con   tamales. . . . 

And  the  bull-fight  of  a  Sunday! 


*  A  letter  from  Rio  says  there  are  more  fiddles  than  guns  on 
some  of  the  great  battleships,  and  that  music  is  more  in  evidence 
than  munitions  of  war.  Amen!  Amen!  And  may  they  all  be 
as  melodious  and  happy  as  Orpheus  and  Argus,  although  it  is 
said  Orpheus  went  to  hell  later  on,  soon  after  Jason's  quest  for 
the  yellow  wool. 


[231] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


That  is  all  there  is  to  say 
Of  all  your  yesterdays,  to-day. 

Heed  my  heroes,  heed  the  story; 

Gone  the  argent  galleon; 
Gone  the  gold  and  gone  the  glory, 

Gone  the  gaudy,  haughty  Don. 
His  sword,  his  pride,  sleep  side  by  side, 
Nor  reck,  at  all,  yond  ebb  or  tide. 

Ye  who  buckle  on  bright  armor, 
Read  and  heed  nor  boast  at  all 

Till  ye  have  worn  it  warm  and  warmer, 
Fronting  pride  that  runs  to  fall. 

And  heed,  my  heroes,  where  away 

We  all,  a  span  of  years  today? 

But  welcome,  walls  of  flame  and  thunder, 
Isles  of  steel  and  miles  of  launches ! 

Welcome  to  these  seas  of  wonder, 
Men  of  war  with  olive  branches; 

Welcome  to   dear   Crusoe's   seas, 

These  sundown  seas,  this  sun-born  breeze. 

Welcome  to  the  oldest,  newest! 

Here  God's  spirit  moved  upon 
The  waters,  these  the  broadest,  bluest, 

Ere  that  sudden  burst  of  dawn 
Dividing  day  from  primal  night, 
When  He  said,  "Let  there  be  light." 

But,  beware  the  wild  tornadoes ! 

Eritre  nous,  they  are  terrific! 
Scout  that  dago's  gay  bravados! 

Cut  that  silly  name,  Pacific! 
[232] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


Balboa,  wading  to  his  knees, 
Cried:    "Lo,  the  calm,  pacific  seas!" 

Straightway  Cortez  hewed  his  head  off! 

Nay,  blame  not,  accuse  nor  cavil. 
Spite  of  all  that  has  been  said  of 

He  should  have  hewed  it  to  the  navel; 
Aye,  cut  his  neck  off  to  his  knees, 
For  naming  these  "Pacific  Seas !" 

Pacific?     No,  American! 

Her  go,  her  get  there,  gown  or  gun! 
Her  British,  "Get,  and  keep  who  can," 

All  places,  races,  rolled  in  one. 
Pacific  Ocean?  Mild  of  motion? 
Never  such  a  silly  notion! 

So,  beware  the  sometimes  tidal 
Wave  Tahitian,  where  bananas 

Bathe;  where  fig-leafed  parties  bridal 
Dine  in  tree-tops  on  mananas ! 

Samoa's  typhoons,  too,  beware — 

Her  mermaids  combing  kinky  hair. 

Aye,  tidals,  typhoons,  'clones  beware! 

But  when  you  touch  sea-set  Nippon, 
Where  lift  three  thousand  isles  mid-air, 

And  each  an  Eden  dear  as  dawn, 
With  dimpled  Eves  and  dainty  elves — 
Why,  then  beware  your  bloomin'  selves. 


[233] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


TWO    WISE   OLD    MEN    OF    OMAR'S    LAND 

The  world  lay  as  a  dream  of  love, 

Lay  drowned  in  beauty,  drowsed  in  peace, 

Lay  filled  with  plenty,  fat-increase, 

Lay  low-voiced  as  a  wooing  dove. 

And  yet,  poor,  blind  man  was  not  glad, 

But  to  and  fro,  contentious,  mad, 

Rebellious,  restless,  hard  he  sought 

And  sought  and  sought — he  scarce  knew  what. 

The  Persian  monarch  shook  his  head, 
Slow  twirled  his  twisted,  raven  beard, 
As  one  who  doubted,  questioned,  feared. 
Then  called  his  poet  up  and  said: 
"What  aileth  man,  blind  man,  that  he, 
Stiff-necked  and  selfish,  will  not  see 
Yon  gorgeous  glories  overhead, 
These  flowers  climbing  to  the  knee, 
As  climb  sweet  babes  that  loving  cling 
To  hear  a  song? — Go  forth  and  sing!" 

The  poet  passed.     He  sang  all  day, 

Sang  all  the  year,  sang  many  years; 

He  sang  in  joy,  he  sang  in  tears, 

By  desert  way  or  watered  way, 

Yet  all  his  singing  was  in  vain. 

Man  would  not  list,  man  would  not  heed 

Save  but  for  lust  and  selfish  greed 

And  selfish  glory  and  hard  gain. 

And  so  at  last  the  poet  sang 
In  biting  hunger  and  hard  pain 
No  more,  but  tattered,  bent  and  gray, 
He  hanged  his  harp  and  let  it  hang 

[234] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


Where  keen  winds  walked  with  wintry  rain, 
High  on  a  willow  by  the  way, 
The  while  he  sought  his  king  to  cry 
His   failure   forth   and   reason  why. 

The  old  king  pulled  his  thin  white  beard, 
Slow  sipped  his  sherbet  nervously, 
Peered  right  and  left,  suspicious  peered, 
Thrummed  with  a  foot  as  one  who  feared, 
Then  fixed  his  crown  on  close;  then  he 
Clutched  tight  the  wide  arm  of  his  throne, 
And  sat  all  sullen,  sad  and  lone. 

At  last  he  savagely  caught  up 

And  drained,  deep  drained,  his  jeweled  cup; 

Then  fierce  he  bade  his  poet  say, 

And  briefly  say,  what  of  the  day? 

The  trembling  poet  felt  his  head, 

He  felt  his  thin  neck  chokingly. 

"Oh,  king,  this  world  is  good  to  see ! 

Oh,  king,  this  world  is  beautiful!" 

The  king's  thin  beard  was  white  as  wool, 

The  while  he  plucked  it  terribly, 

Then  suddenly  and  savage  said: 

"Cut  that!  cut  that!  or  lose  your  head!" 

The  poet's  knees  smote  knee  to  knee, 
The  poet's  face  was  pitiful. 
"Have  mercy,  king!  hear  me,  hear  me! 
This  gorgeous  world  is  beautiful, 
This  beauteous  world  is  good  to  see; 
But  man,  poor  man,  he  has  not  time 
To  see  one  thing  at  all,  save  one — " 


[235] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


"Haste,  haste,  dull  poet,  and  have  done 
With  all  such  feeble,  foolish  rime! 
No  time?    Bah!  man,  no  bit  of  time 
To  see  but  one  thing?    Well,  that  one?" 
"That  one,  oh,  king,  that  one  fair  thing 
Of  all  fair  things  on  earth  to  see, 
Oh,  king,  oh,  wise  and  mighty  king, 
That  takes  man's  time  continually, 
That  takes  man's  time  and  drinks  it  up 
As  you  have  drained  your  jeweled  cup—- 
Is woman,  woman,  wilful,  fair — 
Just  woman,  woman,  everywhere!" 

The  king  scarce  knew  what  next  to  do; 

He  did  not  like  that  ugly  truth; 

For,  far  back  in  his  sunny  youth, 

He,  too,  had  loved  a  goodly  few. 

He  punched  a  button,  punched  it  twice, 

Then  as  he  wiped  his  beard  he  said: 

"Oh,  threadbare  bard  of  foolish  rime, 

If  man  looks  all  his  time  at  her, 

Sees  naught  but  her,  pray  tell  me,  sir, 

Why,  how  does  woman  spend  her  time?" 

The  singer  is  a  simple  bird, 

The  simplest  ever  seen  or  heard. 

It  will  not  lie,  it  knows  no  thing 

Save  but  to  sing  and  truly  sing. 

The  poet  reached  his  neck,  his  head, 

As  if  to  lay  it  on  the  shelf 

And  quit  the  hard  and  hapless  trade 

Of  simple  truth  and  homely  rime 

That  brought  him  neither  peace  nor  pelf ; 

Then  with  his  last,  faint  gasp  he  said: 

"Why,  woman,  woman,  matron,  maid, 

[236] 


SEMI-HUMOROUS    SONGS 


She  puts  in  all  her  precious  time 
In  looking,  looking  at  herself!" 

A  silence  then  was  heard  to  fall 

So  hard  it  broke  into  a  grin! 

The  old  king  thought  a  space  and  thought 

Of  when  her  face  was  all  in  all — 

When  love  was  scarce  a  wasteful  sin, 

And  even  kingdoms  were  as  naught. 

At  last  he  laughed,  and  in  a  trice 

He  banged  the  button,  banged  it  thrice, 

Then  clutched  his  poet's  hand  and  then 

These  two  white-bearded,  wise  old  men 

They  sat  that  throne  and  chinned  and  chinned, 

And  grinned,  they  did,  and  grinned  and  grinned ! 


[237] 


Psassr 


v.y 


\ 


